A Second Counting of Days
by paganpunk2
Summary: The second annual short story countdown to Christmas, featuring the Batfam and friends in a variety of holiday tales. Multiple genres and characters are represented, so there's a little something under the tree for everyone. Rated T for language in some chapters.
1. Duet, Part 1

**Author's Note: Welcome to the second annual Batman Christmas Countdown! We're starting off this year with some serious bro-bonding between Dick and Tim. This two-part tale is set when Tim is still Robin and before Damian comes on the scene. Part two will post tomorrow. **

**Be sure to either follow the story or check back regularly for updates, which will occur every day between now and the 25th. Also, keep an eye on my Batman blog (accessible via my profile page) where I will be posting fun things to go along with the stories.**

**If you missed last year's countdown or just want two holiday stories a day, check out the 2013 collection, entitled 'A Counting of Days'.**

**For those of you following 'Silent Treatment', I apologize for the lack of chapter yesterday. My flight came in extremely late, and I only had the energy to write a couple of pages. However, I will endeavor to post on that tale within the next couple of days. **

**As always, happy reading!**

* * *

><p>When the world had stopped spinning and he was certain that he was still alive, Robin looked to his left. Nightwing sat beside him, blinking in startled confusion. Suddenly, he grinned. "Well, that was exciting."<p>

"Yeah," Tim snorted. "I love being in plane crashes, especially on Christmas Eve."

The other man's face turned pensive. "Yeah…Bruce'll be upset. Tomorrow's going to be totally thrown off now."

"Never mind the fact that we _crashed the Batplane_."

"That, too. But hey, at least we're together, right?"

Tim couldn't help but smile at that. They had both spent their fair share of Christmases feeling alone, and neither was eager to repeat the experience. The wilds of Siberia weren't his idea of a fun holiday getaway, but Dick had a point. "At least we're together," he agreed. "And we're out of the storm, too. That's a plus."

"Pfft," Nightwing sputtered as a flurry of flakes came through the broken windshield and hit him in the face. "Speak for yourself, bro."

"…Further back, maybe?" If they were going to be away from home overnight they might as well make themselves comfortable. The pair of narrow exam tables in the medical bay would serve well enough as makeshift beds, and there was sure to be food in the emergency bags that were kept on board at all times. They could easily weather a night or two in the middle of nowhere so long as they stayed put.

"Might as we-" Dick broke off as the plane shifted. A mighty _crack_ rang out somewhere behind them, overriding the wail of the blizzard. Several more echoed it in the seconds that followed, each one sounding like the report of a gun. "…Uh-oh."

"What was that?" Tim asked.

"Uh…so you remember how right at the end there I was shouting that there was an open area I was aiming for?"

"Yeeeeah?"

"…Think that might have been a lake."

There was a nervous chuckle in his brother's voice, and it was _not_ comforting. "Let me guess; that noise is from the ice giving out beneath us, and we're fixing to sink?"

Another _pop-crack_ sounded. "Bingo," Dick verified. "…Do you want to say 'abandon ship', or should I?"

Unbuckling his harness, Tim stood up. "Let's save the time and just flee."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Stopping only to grab the survival backpacks from a cupboard near the cockpit, the pair made their way to the main door of the plane. Dick pulled the emergency handle and pushed, knocking the barrier free and sending it clattering to the frozen surface below. They peered down at it, waiting to see if the ice would hold. When several seconds passed without any indication of trouble, they exchanged a glance. "…What do you think?" Tim inquired.

"I think the only way we're going to know for sure is to give it a try."

He grimaced. They'd be dead in minutes if they went into the freezing water, but they couldn't stay where they were. As if on cue, a whine came from the fuselage towards the rear of the jet. The floor shifted beneath them, leaving them standing on an incline. "…Great. Trial and error."

"Yup. Here, hold this." Dick shoved a coil of rope at him. "I don't think I'll go through, but if I do maybe you can pull me back up."

"Right." He watched in trepidation as his brother lowered himself to hang from the bottom of the door frame, then let go. His feet had been dangling just over a foot above the wind-polished lake, but he rolled when he landed despite the short drop. With his weight thus distributed he was able to move away from the plane without breaking through the ice. At ten yards distant he was barely visible, all but whited out by the weather that had crash-landed them in this predicament to begin with.

"Your tu-, -ob."

The radio transmission was garbled, but Tim got the message. Tying the rope around his waist, he sat down on the floor and scooted to the edge. Then he twisted around, grabbed the same spot Dick had, and allowed himself to dangle in mid-air. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, and let go.

There was no give to the ice that caught him, but that was fine; he preferred bruised elbows to a sub-arctic dunking any day. Keeping his eyes shut, he rolled in the direction that he'd last seen his brother. Only when he bumped into something solid did he look up.

Dick waved down at him and smirked. "Good times, huh?" he shouted over the wind as he offered his hand.

"Yeah. Fabulous." On his feet again, Tim looked back at the snow-blurred hulk of the Batplane. There was an obvious tilt to the craft now, and he calculated that the tail section was at least partially under water. It seemed that they'd gotten out with little time to spare, but he knew that escaping the wreckage had only been the beginning of their problems. Now they were stuck on a blizzard-blasted lake with no shelter and no cold weather gear save for the linings of their costumes, making them prime candidates for hypothermia. Worse still, he had no idea where the nearest land was. "...Well?" he hollered. "What now?"

"...Uh..." Dick turned about, staring into the blankness that surrounded them. "...This way!" he pointed after a moment.

Tim hesitated. "Are you sure?" How could the older man possibly remember which direction they needed to head in after the half-blind manner in which they'd landed?

"Nope! But we've got to go _somewhere_, right?"

That logic didn't exactly inspire confidence, but Dick's 'let's have an adventure' grin succeeded where reason failed. Sighing, Tim picked up the slack in the rope still binding them together and gestured for his brother to lead the way.

They walked with the wind behind them, letting their sleek emergency packs absorb the bulk of the gale's force. On more than one occasion a particularly hard gust gave them a boost, shoving them forward across the slick ice so that they were forced to either slide or fall. Every once in a while a cross-wind would momentarily clear the view some hundred or two yards ahead and let them see the flat expanse that lay before them. On the fifth or sixth time that this happened, Tim felt Dick grab his rapidly numbing arm.

"Look!" the older man exclaimed, pointing anew.

The storm shifted, and the white wall fell again. "At what?"

"There was something there!"

"Probably a bear," he predicted darkly. Their luck seemed to be running out; while they hadn't landed in the water, their dry state could only buy them so much life in temperatures like this. As if that wasn't enough the already-gray sky was darkening, foretelling the advance of the long Arctic winter night. Without shelter and fire they wouldn't last more than another hour. Tim found himself almost hoping that it _was_ a bear up ahead, as death by mauling would be a much faster way to go than the creeping freeze that was looming on the horizon.

"Nah, it was too rectangular for a bear. Try again."

He blinked. "Rectangular? Wait...a building?!" If Dick had truly seen shelter, then maybe they wouldn't have to give Bruce the worst Christmas of his life this year after all...

"Yup. C'mon, we're a little bit off course. We need to go this way."

Tim was just beginning to wonder if Dick had seen some sort of a cold-climate mirage when the surface beneath his boots changed. Frozen blades of shore grass broke off under his weight as they climbed a low rise and left the lake behind. The wind dropped off as trees closed in, and a minute later they found themselves standing at the front door of a small but sturdy-looking cabin. "...It's locked," he observed, indicating a simple hasp with a rusted fastener fed through it.

"Frozen wood is fragile wood, little brother. Step back a sec."

He did as he'd been told. Dick launched a hard kick just to the side of the hasp once, twice, then a third time. Each blow made the ancient lock squeal over the sound of the storm, but it didn't give. Finally Dick stopped, panting slightly.

"Strong door," Tim commented.

"Not strong enough." Undisturbed by the lack of results his efforts had produced, Nightwing strode forward and wrapped his fingers around the latch. "Ready?"

"Um...for what?"

"For _this_!"

Tim had seen his brother perform a fair number of remarkable feats in the two years since he'd taken up the Robin mantle, but he'd never witnessed him ripping metal out of wood before. "...Holy shit," he gaped. "Channel Superman much?"

"Nah. You're giving me _way_ too much credit." Dick held up the apparatus that now dangled from the door frame. "Look. It was only nailed in, not screwed. Besides, I think I loosened it up pretty good by kicking it. Now..." He pushed on the portal he had just unlocked. It swung inward roughly a foot and a half, then stopped. "...Ah, crap."

"What's wrong with it? Warping, or...?"

"I don't know. Permafrost, maybe. It doesn't matter; I think we can squeeze in if we take off our packs." Shrugging his own bag free as he spoke, he leaned into the darkness inside. "...Yeah. Okay, stay here while I check this out. I don't really want us both inside if the place collapses, you know?"

"Um...sure." The prospect of digging his brother out of a pile of rubble wasn't exactly the thought he wanted to be left with, but it was too late now. "...Just hurry up, huh?"

"You bet."

Dick slithered around the door and vanished. He was only gone a minute, but Tim's teeth were chattering by the time he reappeared. "...Can I come in now?" he asked.

"Yup. C'mon, there are beds and everything."

"Good." He passed their packs through the gap, then ducked inside. A frown formed on his lips almost immediately. "…It's colder in here than out there!"

"It's just cold-soaked. It should warm up quick once we get a fire going." Nightwing pointed his flashlight at a rickety metal stove. "I just hope that thing's set up for wood and not hooked to some fifty-year-old barrel of heating fuel."

"Wood...ah...you're not planning on going back out for that, are you?"

The light jumped to a heavy table with two benches tucked underneath of it. "There should be hatchets in our bags. I figure Alfred will forgive us for not sitting at the table while we eat if we tell him we had to burn it in order to survive."

"Heh. Yeah, you're probably right about that. So...chop chop on the wood, then?"

Dick laughed. "You're getting as punny as me. I love it."

Half an hour later full dark had fallen on the far side of the cabin's two age-stained windows. Tim didn't mind; a quick search of their home away from home had turned up a box of dusty candles, several of which were now serving to chase the shadows into the corners. Busting one of the benches up into stove-lengths had been enough to make him break out in a light sweat, and the eager little fire that Dick was stoking promised that he wouldn't get cold again anytime soon. The beds he'd been promised turned out to be little more than old metal spring assemblies covered with crumbling pallet mattresses that looked like they'd been made when the country still had a czar, but he didn't complain. Compared to the frigid end he'd been dreading an hour before, this place was the Ritz.

"Hungry, Timmy?"

He looked over to find that Nightwing had stripped off his gloves and was warming his bare hands before the flames. "...Are we using names?" he asked.

"Who's going to hear us in a place like this? I don't think anyone's been here since Putin was still in the KGB."

"So long as it wasn't the KGB that was in here last. Then we might actually need to worry." Snagging one of their bags from beside the closed door – it had fought valiantly to stay stuck on its hump of permafrost, but their combined weight had prevailed to shut it – he joined his brother by the stove. "I'm starving. Let's see what we've got..."

"Dehydrated potatoes," Dick read the first bag that was held up. "Yum."

"Better than starving. Oh, hey, jerky."

"Is it frozen?"

He bent the package, testing it. "Either that or old."

"It's not old. Alfred cycles all the emergency supplies every ninety days. Here, I'll see if I can find a pan or something. Once the top of the stove heats up I'll bet we can manage some sort of stew with this stuff."

"Sounds good to me," Tim agreed.

A dented pot was rustled out of the cabin's lone cabinet, and a large scoop of snow quickly melted down into a decent-smelling potato soup. The jerky proved problematic, however, refusing to become even remotely soft no matter how long it soaked. Another hour passed, and by the end of it both of their stomachs were grumbling. Finally Dick, now stripped down to the moisture-wicking base layer that they both wore beneath their suits, approached the stove with a determined look on his face. "...This is going to have to be good enough," he declared as he poked the concoction with a cracked wooden spoon. "I don't think the meat's going to get any better, and I'm afraid of burning the potatoes."

"I seriously don't care, to be honest," Tim confessed. "At this point it could all go back to the way it was when we took it out of the bag and I'd still eat it." If he'd been hungry before he was ravenous now, and he wasted no time in crossing from the beds he'd been shaking out to where Dick was dishing up dinner.

They ate without speaking, their elbows bumping as they sat beside one another on the only remaining bench,. When he had scraped his tin cup clean, Tim pushed it away and propped his elbows up on the table. "...Do you think he's worried?" he broached quietly, thinking of their surrogate father.

"I think he's out of his mind with worry," Dick answered with a heavy sigh. "Crashing isn't something the Batplane is supposed to do, and that goes double for when we're in it without him."

"And half a world away," Tim added.

"And coming back from a top secret mission that _you_ weren't even technically supposed to be on," Dick finished. "Not that that could be helped."

"No. It couldn't." The JLA mission they were returning from had been assigned to Nightwing and Batman, but issues in Gotham had made the latter unable to leave the city. Dick had suggested that Robin, whom everyone knew would be ready to depart Young Justice for a spot in the full League before too much longer, accompany him. Bruce had grudgingly agreed, and Tim had been ecstatic.

Their task had been challenging, but in the end they'd succeeded in bringing down the leaders of a major international weapons-dealing ring. Everything had been going beautifully right up until they'd flown into the damnable storm that still wailed at them through the stove pipe from time to time. "...This isn't the Christmas Eve I imagined," he confessed slowly, "but I'd rather be here than at home wondering where you and Bruce were."

"Ditto," Dick nodded. "On the plus side, the plane itself and both of us are all carrying tracking devices. I'm guessing Batman will show up as soon as the blizzard clears enough to let him in. Then we'll go home, see Alfred, and have Christmas just like normal." A warm hand squeezed Tim's shoulder and shook him gently. "Just think; we'll probably be allowed to have all the Christmas cookies we want after completing a mission _and _surviving a plane crash. Speaking of that...you're not hurt, right? I probably should have asked that earlier, I know, but I was a bit distracted by trying not to become an abominable snowman."

Tim shrugged. "Eh. I'm a little banged up, but it's nothing a hot shower and some bruise cream won't fix. How 'bout...you?" He yawned. "Ugh. Sorry."

"I can't fault you for yawning, bro. I've been doing it for twenty minutes. But I'm fine, the same as you are. Bruises and soreness, blah blah blah."

"Mmkay. Good."

Several minutes passed without either of them saying anything. Tim's eyes were just beginning to droop shut when Dick nudged him with an elbow. "...C'mon, little brother," he encouraged. "Let's at least give those beds a try before we rule them out and start sleeping at the table."

"...Huh? Oh..." He straightened up, rubbing his eyes. "Is the fire okay?"

"Yeah. I stoked it good earlier, and I banked it after I finished cooking. It should keep it toasty in here until morning."

"'Kay." They stumbled to the back of the cabin, blowing out candles along the way. Tim pulled a ragged, vermin-chewed old quilt over himself and lay staring into the darkness. Some Christmas lights, he thought, would really jazz the place up... "Damn it!"

"What's up?" Dick's sleepy voice sounded.

"Nothing. It's just…we missed Christmas lights viewing." It shouldn't have been a big deal, but it was. In his opinion the best things about Christmas at Wayne Manor were the traditions, and the annual Christmas Eve lights viewing outing was one of his favorites. His parents had had holiday habits, of course, but half the time they'd ended up curtailed or forgotten all together because of a business trip or a last-minute society to-do. That didn't happen under Bruce's roof, where family-centric celebrations were practically sacred. Of all the days of the year when they might have been stranded away from home, he lamented, why did it have to be _tonight_?

"Oh...you're right. We missed having cider and gingerbread in front of the tree, too." A heavy sigh came from the other bed. "Alfred told me he had a new recipe for the cream cheese frosting this year..."

They were on a melancholy roll now, and Tim kept it going by listing off another of the holiday moments that the blizzard outside had denied them. "Christmas pajamas." What he wouldn't have given to be able to change out of his hard-used costume and into clean, warm flannel…

"Watching holiday movies until we all fall asleep on the couch and Alfred makes us go to bed."

"Yeah…poor Alfred."

"Yeah, he's probably just as worried as Bruce is. I wish we could at least get a radio transmission out." They'd tried, but the interference from the storm had been far too fierce.

Tim winced guiltily. "...I meant because he's going to be up all night putting out presents, and we're not even going to be there in the morning to open them and validate his hard work."

"Oh. That, too. But I guess with how things are he'll be up anyway, you know?"

"Mm-hmm." Nobody slept when a member of the family was missing, and with two of them lost Tim imagined that it hadn't been a very festive night back home. Filling the tree might distract the butler from his worry, but that wasn't the point.

"...I'm sorry I crashed the plane and ruined Christmas, Timmy," Dick apologized.

"It's not really your fault, Dick. I didn't figure you wanted to crash any more than I did, especially not tonight."

"No. Especially not tonight. You're right about that. But..." A beat passed. "Well, at least we're together," he said, echoing the sentiment he'd voiced back in the plane's crumpled fuselage.

For the second time that day, the point made Tim smile. "Right. At least we're together, and that's a lot better than it could be."

"Exactly! And cheer up; maybe Santa will show up in the middle of the night and whisk us home in time for breakfast."

He snorted. "I'm not going to hold my breath for that, if you don't mind."

"Aw...keep your fingers crossed, at least?"

It was absurd – crossing his fingers would do literally nothing to help a rescue arrive faster, and he knew it – but he didn't argue. If nothing else, hoping for Santa to come was a Christmas activity that he could take part in with his brother. With no other traditions available to them tonight, he determined to seize the one he had. "Okay," he gave in, wrapping his middle and index fingers around each other. "I will." For some reason the hopeful gesture made him feel a little better. Opting not to explore why that was, he rolled over and closed his eyes. "G'night, Dick."

"Night, little brother. See you in the morning. And Merry Christmas."


	2. Duet, Part 2

"Merry Christmas, Timmy!" an eager cry woke him many hours later.

"…Huh…what?" He felt a smile start across his lips as he struggled up towards consciousness. Christmas! That meant French toast and presents and, if it wasn't too cold out later, a knock-down, drag-out snowball fight with Dick and Bruce. The tree would be lit all day, Alfred wouldn't count how many cookies he was eating, and he would fall into bed tonight feeling exceedingly content…

Then he opened his eyes and remembered where he was. "…Oh," a disappointed syllable escaped him. "Right. Siberia."

His brother's face appeared in front of him. "Yeah," he commiserated. "Siberia. But look, we've got a tree!"

"…What?" There was no _way_ they had a Christmas tree, unless… "Did you cut that thing down this morning?" he asked as he spotted the scraggly pine sitting on top of the table.

"Yup! It's cute, isn't it?"

"Sure, if you're Charlie Brown." The thing couldn't have been more than a foot tall, and the slivers of broken bench that had been shoved into its miniscule trunk to help it stay upright made it look more like a Halloween item than something meant for Christmas. "…You didn't go out in the storm to get that, did you?! Dick, that's dangerous as hell!"

"Relax, Timmy. The storm's stopped. But it's _cold_," he grimaced. "Like fifty, sixty below cold."

The momentary uplift in his mood – if the storm was over, Bruce was sure to be on his way – fell flat. "…You don't think he'll come in temps that low, do you?"

"I _hope_ he won't come in temps that low. As much as I want to be home for at least part of today, it's not worth the risk. Machines do funny things when it's this cold, you know, and all he's got now is the auxiliary jet. Supes is out of the question, too; we'd be blocks of ice by the time we got to the coast." He paused. "Speaking of machines…the plane's gone. It totally vanished under the ice sometime last night."

"Greeeat…" The Batplane was serving as an apartment block for fish, it was too cold for a rescue to come, and Christmas was slipping by without them. He was sorely tempted to just roll over and sleep until tomorrow, when boredom was to be expected.

But Dick was sending him one of those pleading looks that he wore so well. "I've got stuff to make breakfast," he bribed. "It won't be French toast, but there were some powdered eggs and some oats in our bags. There were even a few little packets of pepper and sugar. And after we eat I thought we could decorate the tree. You know…together?"

It was damn near impossible to resist the man when he was like this, and Tim _was_ hungry. "Breakfast sounds good," he capitulated. "But how are we going to decorate the tree?"

"With these!" All but prancing the short distance to the table, Dick held up two small plastic bags full of roundish pellets. "I found them in the tackle boxes at the bottoms of the packs. They're those roe imitation balls that work as bait. I thought we could string them on some of the thread from the emergency sewing kits and make garland."

A freeze-dried breakfast and a tree decorated with fake fish eggs wasn't the Christmas Tim had been hoping for, but he would take what he could get. "...Okay," he agreed as he crawled out of bed. "I'm going to step outside for a second, and then let's do this."

When he came back in a minute later, Dick had yet another surprise for him. "Look! I found Christmas candy!"

Wincing from the necessary exposure he'd just suffered through, he peered at the packages in his brother's hand. "...Chocolate flavored energy bars?"

"Yup!"

"It's...better than nothing, I guess."

"Sure it is. And I came up with a way for us to have presents, too."

He blinked at him for a long moment. It wasn't difficult to understand how Dick had come up with Christmas breakfast, some 'candy', and even a tree and decorations, but gifts were impossible. "All we have are our belts, the bags, and the stuff we found in here," he puzzled out loud. "How did you manage presents?" Had the man slept at all last night?

"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy..." Dick shook his head. "You've got to leave order of operations behind and think outside the box sometimes." Leaving his cooking, he crossed to the table and picked up a small notebook and a pencil. "I found these while I was digging out the food. We can tear out a bunch of sheets, write down the stuff that we got for each other, and then fold everything up and put it under the tree. It won't be quite the same as opening the real presents, but it's something." He paused. "…What do you think? Want to do it?"

"...Hey, Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a freaking genius sometimes, you know that?"

"Nah," the older man demurred. "I just want us to have a good Christmas even though we're not home. That's all."

"Well, I'd say you're succeeding." Despite his regret over the activities they'd missed and the people they were still missing, he wasn't exaggerating; the day really did seem to be getting better as it went on.

"Great! You want to start splitting up that other bench while I make breakfast? We're going to need more wood if it stays this cold all day."

"Sure," Tim agreed. Wanting to try a little make-believe for himself, he ventured a suggestion. "...What's the stove, like our fireplace or something?"

Dick beamed at him. "Now you're getting it, little brother! At this rate we'll have an _awesome _Christmas, huh?"

Tim felt happy warmth rise into his cheeks. They had a tree, food, a fire, presents, and each other, and that wasn't a half-bad spread for a couple of plane crash survivors. "Yeah, Dick," he nodded. "It's definitely going to be an awesome Christmas."

* * *

><p>When breakfast was gone and the fire was crackling merrily in the stove they turned their attention to the tree. Now that the benches were gone they had resorted to sitting cross-legged atop the table, which left them just enough room to work on their makeshift decorations. Breaking open their tiny sewing kits, they each threaded a needle and began to string foam puffballs into garland.<p>

Neither spoke, but as his hands found rhythm in his activity Tim began to hum. It was formless at first, an idle noise made only to fill the quiet, but slowly it morphed into a rendition of 'White Christmas'. As he hit his stride with the song, Dick began to sing, his lyric tenor ghosting over the accompaniment without drowning it out. The duet felt strangely natural to Tim, and the embarrassment he normally felt over his lack of musical grace was nowhere to be found. When the last note died away, he smiled. "...That was cool."

"It was. Should we do another one?"

"Um...sure. What song?"

"Something happy. How about 'Jingle Bells'?"

"Is that the one that starts out with 'dashing through the snow'?"

"Yeah. You know it, right?"

"...Yeah. I think I can manage to hum it more or less the right way."

"You could just sing with me, if you're not sure about the actual music."

"Uh...no. My singing sounds like pigs squealing."

"What?" Dick started, then stared at him. "I don't believe that. You're being too hard on yourself."

"No, I'm not. I'm a terrible singer, honestly. I'm good at the _music_ part – I can remember all of the notes really easily – but singing...no. Someone told me once that I could probably get better with lessons, but the problem is that that would necessitate me letting someone hear me sing. Since I don't believe in murder, that's out of the question."

"That's so weird…" Dick shook his head. "I've always wondered why you never sing when you play the piano. Not that you play that often, but still. It's good when you do."

"It's wooden when I do," Tim said, repeating what both his mother and his old instructor had once said. "Like I said, I can repeat the notes just fine, but...I don't know, I guess I don't put the feeling into the music that I'm supposed to. It doesn't flow. Now when you sing..._that_ flows. Anyone can tell that you're feeling the music." He gave a wry smirk. "Bruce should have gotten you piano lessons when you were a kid. You'd be a star now."

"Oh, please. Who wants to be a star? It's too hard to sneak away at night and kick baddie butt when there are cameras pointed at every window of your house 24/7."

"True."

"I _do_ kind of wish I'd learned an instrument, though," Dick went on wistfully. "…Well. I guess it doesn't matter. It's not like it's a skill I've ever needed in the field, you know?"

A beat passed. "Anyway...'Jingle Bells'?" Tim queried, wanting to dispel the vaguely regretful atmosphere that had descended.

"You bet. Hit it!"

They hummed and sang their way through several more tunes, purposefully slowing down their stringing in order to draw out the time. When neither could come up with another song that they both knew well enough to produce from start to finish, they hung their completed garlands on the tree. "Looks good," Dick approved.

"Not too bad," Tim agreed. While Dick's fish eggs had been bright yellow, his own were orange, and together the two strands brightened the spindly pine considerably. "Too bad the thread wasn't a different color than black."

"Yeah...that's okay, though. It's still fabulous."

That was a wild exaggeration, but Tim let it slide. "Do you want to do presents, or should we wait until later so we have something to look forward to?"

Dick arched an eyebrow. "You're talking to the guy who used to try and convince Bruce to start Christmas when he got home from patrol at three in the morning. I don't believe in waiting for presents."

"Oh, good," he smirked. "Glad we're on the same page there."

"Speaking of pages..." Dick pulled the notebook he'd found close and tore out a few sheets. "Here. I figure if we only do three apiece there will still be a couple of surprises left for when we get home."

"Sounds like a plan." While his brother scribbled down gifts with their lone pencil, Tim tried to decide which items he should reveal. By the time the writing utensil was passed to him he had settled on two things, but couldn't pin down the third. Tapping the eraser on the table, he watched Dick's clever fingers fold his gifts into tiny origami shapes. It really _was_ a shame that Bruce hadn't gotten his eldest child music lessons, he mused; if the older man's singing was any indication, he would have been very good at whatever instrument he'd chosen to pursue.

"Gaaah!" he exclaimed suddenly. The idea that had hit him at the end of his thought had been so brilliant, so perfect, that he hadn't been able to keep his excitement fully contained. "It's nothing!" he insisted as Dick looked up, his face concerned. "Just...well...nothing."

"...Okay. If you say so."

He didn't bother trying to make his slips of paper look fancy, knowing from experience that his folding was sub-par at the best of times. Excited as he was about the surprise item he had come up with on the spur of the moment, he was sure he would end up butchering the job. Instead he simply folded each sheet into quarters and placed it under the tree. "Ready?" he asked a bit giddily.

"I am inordinately excited about this," Dick confessed, his eyes shining. "If Bruce and Alfred were here, I think this would be better than normal Christmas. Is that weird?"

"If it is, we're both weird," Tim answered. "You go first."

"_You_ go first."

"No. Oldest goes first."

"No, _youngest _goes first."

"Dick, open your damn presents! I want to see if you like them!"

"But _I _want to see if _you._..Aaugh, okay! Okay. I'll open one, then you open one. We'll go back and forth. Deal?"

"Okay. But hurry up!"

"All right. Is there one I should open first?"

Tim looked down at the tree and realized that he'd forgotten which of the identical pieces of paper contained the gift he was the most anxious about. "Oh, shit..."

"It's okay!" Dick said. "It's okay. This way it's a surprise for both of us. So...ready?"

"Yes!"

As Tim had known would be the case, Dick was delighted with the two items that were waiting for him under tape and bows in Gotham. He was equally pleased with what was revealed on the tiny star and candy cane that he – somewhat regretfully – unfolded. "...Well?" he pressed. "C'mon, open your last one!"

"I think you should open your last one first."

"What? No!" He couldn't wait any longer to know if his stroke of genius had been a success; Dick needed to open his final gift, and right now, or Tim thought he might explode with nervous anticipation. "We agreed on an order."

"But..." Dick sighed. "Okay. You're right, we did agree. I'm just really excited for something you haven't opened yet, that's all."

"Well, so am I, and the quicker you open yours the quicker I can open mine. So open!"

"Alright, here goes..." Two razor-sharp creases were slowly undone. Dick's eyes widened, then darted back and forth as he re-read the note several times. "Timmy..."

"Do you like it?" he pleaded. "It's okay if you don't. It was totally just a random thought I had; I honestly won't be upset if you don't want to do it."

Dick stared at him. "Timmy, I think you need to open your last present."

"But...but do you like it, or not?"

"Tim. Present. Seriously."

He knew what that tone meant; he wasn't getting his answer until he'd done what he'd been told. Feeling distraught – Dick must not have liked it, and was just buying time to figure out how to break the news to him in his usual kind way – he pulled a miniature snowman out from under the scraggly pine's branches. Eyes, a nose, and a scarf had been drawn in on the blank paper, and as he examined them he couldn't help but feel inadequate. Lacking his brother's creativity, he had relied on his last-minute gift from the heart to convey his affection, and he had seemingly failed. With a final glance at Dick's unreadable expression, he undid a dozen different tucks and scanned the two words they had been hiding.

"...Singing lessons," he read quietly. "Wait...singing lessons? You mean..."

"Heh. Yup."

"I gave you...and you gave me..." He crossed his arms. "So you _do_ like your present?"

Dick laughed. "Are you kidding? I love it! You give me piano lessons, I'll give you singing lessons, and at the end of the day we'll both be more musical. It's amazing."

Tim shook his head at the sheet still pinched between his fingers. "...I can't believe we came up with practically the same idea for each other."

"Great minds think alike, little brother," Dick winked. "Now, since we've got time to kill and no piano to play...should we have your first session right now?"

"If you don't mind going home with broken eardrums, sure."

"I'm absolutely positive that you can't be _that_ bad."

"And I'm absolutely positive that you don't know what you've gotten yourself into."

"Eh, that's par for the course." Grinning, Dick leaned back on his hands. "Let's hear those pipes. I want to find out just how deep of a hole I've jumped into."

If there was anyone in the world with whom Tim knew he could share his abysmal singing without having to worry about being teased, it was the man across from him. Nevertheless, he hesitated. "Um..."

"We'll start easy, huh? Try 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. It's barely even singing, and I know you know all the words."

"I...uh..." _What the hell,_ he thought suddenly. _It's not like there's anyone else for a hundred miles who might overhear._ The worst-case scenario was that Dick would retract his offer of lessons. Given the man's track record of success in everything he did, though, the odds were much better that Tim would end up no longer ashamed to open his mouth when a good song came on the radio. Besides, it was Christmas and he was happy; what better circumstances could there be in which to find out if his voice could be improved?

Throwing caution to the wind, he smiled and began to sing.

* * *

><p><em>One year later<em>

"...And a haaaappy New Yeeeeear," a pair of well-matched voices drew out. The piano finished the song off with an impromptu flourish, and the audience burst into applause. Tim looked up from his position behind Dick and found Alfred, Bruce, and Clark all nodding appreciatively as they clapped. A tentative grin slipped across his face. _They liked it,_ he marveled. _They really liked it._

It had been his brother's idea for them to give a little concert after Christmas Eve dinner. They had both worked hard over the last twelve months to master their respective musical tasks, he had argued, and had earned the opportunity to show off a little. Initially they had planned to perform solely for the other two inhabitants of the house, but Clark had been added at the last minute. The Kryptonian had shown a keen interest in their project to better each other's talents from the moment he'd first heard about their unplanned Siberian holiday, and it would have felt wrong to exclude him from their debut.

Tim had been horribly nervous all through the meal despite the fact that he now possessed a great deal more confidence in his singing than he ever had before. Looking back to half an hour earlier, he wasn't sure why he'd felt that way; after all, their listeners were people who would still care about them even if they'd been terrible, and he and Dick had practiced together so frequently over the past few weeks that they could almost have performed in their sleep. But he supposed that it didn't really matter what kind of flips his stomach had done all through the vegetable course now that the show was over. He had managed the impossible and sung, really, truly sung, in front of other people, and that was all he cared about.

Well, that and the man who had gotten him to this point. "Nice playing," he complimented him sincerely. "You've definitely got that smoothness that I lack."

"It was lovely, Master Dick," Alfred agreed. "As was your singing, Master Tim. The pair of you put on an excellent show."

"What do you think, Timmy?" Dick joked. "You heard Alfred. Should we set up a lights show and some fireworks and take this concert thing all the way?"

"Considering that we've only practiced Christmas carols, we'd have a pretty limited window on the calendar," he replied, amused.

"But we could dress up like reindeer and squeeze in some aerial work so the kids would think we were flying!"

"Sure, but how would you get the piano to go with you so that you could play and fly at the same time?" Clark pitched in.

"Don't ask questions like that in this house." Bruce's tone carried a hint of rebuke, but he was smirking. "They tend to get answered, and I don't particularly want to come home from work next week to find an extremely heavy family heirloom dangling from the ceiling."

"How about the week after that?" Dick riposted immediately. "Can we do it then?"

"He'll be Chicago that week," Tim rejoined the fun. "He'd never know if we did."

"You're forgetting Alfred," the billionaire said lazily, clearly assuming that the butler would play informant in his absence.

"Oh, I don't know, sir," Alfred deadpanned. "Musical flying reindeer sound rather amusing. It would make a wonderful fundraiser for the Foundation, I think, and where better for the boys to practice but here at home?" He paused just long enough for Bruce to turn an incredulous look in his direction. "It's certainly a better rehearsal venue than Siberia, don't you agree?"

"I...do not have words for that. Just...no words."

"There's a first," Clark jested. "A speechless Bruce Wayne. That's worthy of page two, at least. Might even warrant the front headline."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the visitor. "Who invited you, again?"

"Dick did."

"I invited him to come along for lights, too," Dick announced.

"...Is he riding on the roof?"

"Bru-uce..." A pout began to form. "Be nice. It's Christmas!"

The billionaire sighed. "...All right. I'll squish into the back with you two so there's room for him in the front seat. Is that acceptable?" he directed at the Kryptonian.

Clark just sent him a half-teasing, half-serious smile. "Acceptable? It's probably the best Christmas present I'll get all season."

"I'll go and fetch the car, then," Alfred said. "Shall we all meet in the foyer in five minutes?"

"Yes," Bruce said. As he stood up, he addressed Clark once more. "...You need to borrow a jacket so you don't look ridiculous riding around in ten degree weather without one."

It had been a directive, not a question, but Clark nodded anyway. "That would be great. Thanks."

Tim made to follow the three older men towards the Manor's main entrance, but Dick's hand gripped his elbow and held him back gently. "We'll catch up in a second," his brother said when Bruce sent them a questioning look.

"...What's up?" he asked once they were alone.

"Nothing major. I just wanted to check in. I know you were nervous about the show, but...did you have fun?"

"You know something? I did." He felt faint heat rise into his cheeks. "And it would never have happened if you hadn't given me singing lessons. So...you know...thanks."

"Thank _you_ for the piano lessons."

"No problem." He looked around the living room then, taking in the tall, fine tree with its antique ornaments, the heavy pitchers of cider and eggnog on the sideboard, and the stacks of gaily wrapped packages waiting for morning. It was a beautiful picture, but experience had caused its luster to fade a little in his eyes. "It's funny," he remarked. "I kind of miss the cabin. I feel like something's almost...almost missing here, you know?"

An arm landed across his shoulders. "Nah," Dick denied. "Nothing's missing, Timmy. We're all right here, and that's what matters. The rest is just window-dressing." There was a quick squeeze, and then he was released. "Now c'mon. Lights viewing might just be a Christmas frill, but it's a good one. Let's go do it together, huh?"

Tim smiled. "Together," he nodded. That really _was_ the best part of the season, it was true. "Let's go check out that window dressing...together."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this little bro-bonding romp! For those who are interested, I will be posting a picture of the 'fish eggs' that the boys used for garland on my blog shortly. A little later I will post a floor plan for both the plane and the cabin. The plane floor plan is also applicable to 'Tectonic Doom', so be sure to check that out for a little extra insight into that story.<strong>

**Tomorrow we'll have a little fun with young Dick and eggnog, so stay tuned!**


	3. Bourbon Boys

Alfred wore a mild frown as he knocked on the door to the master suite. "Master Wayne?" he called out, hoping that he was worrying for nothing.

The portal opened to reveal a disheveled Bruce, his tie gone, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and his eyes bleary. "What is it, Alfred?"

"Sir, is Master Dick in there with you?"

The billionaire stilled. "No. Why?"

He grimaced. "It's just that he isn't in his room, either."

"…Didn't you put him to bed hours ago?"

"I did. That's why I thought it so strange that he isn't there now."

"He wouldn't have gone down to the cave, not with so many people moving between the ballroom and the foyer." A note of panic could be heard in the billionaire's voice as he began eliminating possibilities. "And he's not in here, or in his own bedroom…have you checked the kitchen?"

"I didn't look specifically for him, sir, no, but I did a final sweep of all the halls and open rooms before I came upstairs. I saw no one."

The faint flush of alcohol that had been lingering in Bruce's cheeks drained away, leaving him pale. "…Let's check everywhere again," he said. "You take the kitchen wing, I'll take this side, and we'll meet in the ballroom."

"Very good, sir. I'll see you shortly." _Hopefully,_ he thought as he turned away, _with the young master in tow…_

It wasn't unusual for his more youthful charge to wander across the hall to his guardian's chamber – in fact, the boy made the migration almost nightly – but the vanishing act he seemed to have pulled this evening was unprecedented. As Alfred searched unsuccessfully, his fear grew. The den, kitchen, and living room all proved to be as empty as he had last seen them. His own small section of the house, to which the boy knew he could go if he felt the need, was abandoned. Beyond that lay the half-lit indoor pool, and as he stepped into the high, open room he felt his stomach plunge into his shoes.

Something child-sized was floating just under the surface, unmoving and silent.

He felt his heart leap into his throat. _Oh, dear god, no… _His panic reached its crescendo just before he realized that he was looking at the automatic cleaning apparatus. Coming to a stop at the edge of the water, which he'd been about to dive into, he stared at the hovering machine. Part of him was immensely relieved, as anything was better than finding one of his charges beyond help. At the same time, though, he was right back at square one in his search. "Where _are_ you, child?" he muttered as he turned away from the tool that had given him such a scare. "Hide and seek has rather lost its appeal for me tonight..."

The bevy of spare bedrooms, storage, and formal gathering spaces that lay on the west wing's second floor had all been locked during the party, but he checked each one anyway. As he looked he tried to imagine what might have driven the usually obedient youth to avoid all of his preferred spots. Perhaps the gathering had been too loud, he mused as a linen closet turned up uninhabited. Some of Master Wayne's guests weren't known for their mastery of the so-called 'inside voice', and that went double for when there were copious amounts of alcohol flowing. Still, why wouldn't Master Dick have gone to the living room, or perhaps locked himself up in the den, if he was disturbed by the noise? It made no sense for him to have disappeared completely.

Alfred stopped short halfway between the balcony overlooking the grand foyer and the upper east drawing room, which had been in use during tonight's gathering. Dick had been at his guardian's side through the formal dinner and the first hour of the party, looking completely adorable in his miniature tuxedo; every attendee had had the opportunity to see him sparkle. There had been a tasteful signs put in place at bedtime requesting that guests utilize the twisting stairs that connected the drawing room and the ballroom rather than traipsing through the private areas of the house, but that was no guarantee that everyone had complied. How difficult would it have been, he mused darkly, for a cruel-hearted guest to spirit the child away?

He shuddered. Anyone attempting a kidnapping would have found themselves with quite the challenge, but not even the boy's Robin training and the fact that the bedroom door had been locked was enough to make success impossible. Plenty of the people who regularly attended the annual Wayne Manor holiday gathering were the jealous, money-hungry sort, and after years of observation there was very little that Alfred would deem as too low for a few of them. There was the hired help to be considered, too. While he tried to call back the same staff from one event to the next, there were always one or two workers who were otherwise engaged and had to be filled in for. He trusted his old hands, many of whom had been working Wayne Manor to-dos since Bruce was a child, but perhaps he had missed something in his security checks of the new assistants…

He glared into every corner as he moved through the upper east drawing room. If the person responsible for the boy's disappearance had still been there, they would have frozen under his baleful look. As it was, though, the guests and the staff were all gone, having left only hastily-cleared tables and a few strands of broken tinsel behind. _He must be here somewhere,_ he thought desperately. _We're just missing him. Surely no one would be so nasty as to kidnap a child this close to Christmas, and from his own bed at that. _It was wishful thinking, and he knew it, but he clung to his vague hope anyway.

Descending the stairs at an urgent pace, he spied Bruce leaning against what had been the drinks table an hour before. Dick, much to his dismay, was nowhere to be seen. "…Master Wayne," he said a bit helplessly as he approached. "I take it you've had no luck, either. I hate to say this, sir, but perhaps we ought to begin considering…well…suspects."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Alfred."

Shaking his head in confusion, he studied the younger man's face. "…You're smiling," he noted out loud. "What on earth are you smiling for? _Have_ you found him, then? Where is he?"

"He's right here." Bruce took half a step to the side and lifted the tablecloth. "…Don't be mad at him."

Alfred was too far gone on a tide of relief to imagine what could be meant by that request. "Why on earth would I be upset that he's safe?" he asked as he studied the nine-year-old's peacefully sleeping visage.

"Because I think he might be a little drunk."

"...I beg your pardon?!" Boggling, he let his gaze travel from the boy to the man. "_Drunk_?!"

Bruce snickered and reached behind himself. His hand came back holding a crystal glass, the inside walls of which bore an opaque liquid sheen. "I found this on the floor next to him."

"...The eggnog," Alfred deduced. Recalling a snippet of conversation he'd held with the young master earlier in the day, he groaned. "Damn it all...I fear that this may be my fault, sir."

"_Your_ fault?" The billionaire arched an eyebrow. "How is it your fault?"

"Master Dick came into the kitchen while I was mixing the drinks for tonight. He inquired as to what I was making, and I told him. When he remarked that he had never had eggnog before, I offered to save out a small amount so that he might try it. He was quite enamored with his portion," he sighed, "but I never dreamt that he might scheme to dip into the adult servings."

"Alfred..." Bruce's expression had turned pensive. "Did you tell him there was alcohol in it?"

He thought back. Things had been perched on the edge of frantic when the child had approached him with a curious and slightly left-out look in his eyes. The spare tables for the ballroom had just arrived, the caterers had called to say that they were running late, the massive gingerbread model of Wayne Manor had only yet been half-decorated... "Upon reflection, sir, I believe I may have failed to mention that rather important fact," he confessed with a guilty wince. "Although one must wonder why he didn't stop after his first sip. Surely he noticed the difference in taste?"

"I'm amazed he got it past his nose," Bruce opined. "You don't exactly make weak eggnog."

"No, I do not." It was the tradition of the house, in fact, to double the bourbon in the recipe on the night of the Christmas party. Remembering as much, his brow knit in renewed concern. "...Good lord, you don't think he's drunk enough to endanger himself, do you?"

"He seemed all right when I found him – well, all right other than being passed out drunk – but...let's wake him up. Better safe than sorry." With that Bruce knelt and touched the child's pajama-clad shoulder. "...Dicky? Chum? Hey...wake up, kiddo."

"Mmph..."

"C'mon. You've got to get up for a second."

"How cooome?" came a whine. "'M comfy..."

"You're lying on a hardwood floor with no padding whatsoever," Bruce chuckled. "I don't think you're as comfy as you think you are."

"Sleepy..."

"Yeah, I'll bet you _are_ that. Wake up anyway for a minute, huh? We need to at least get you back to bed."

A pair of skinny arms were raised. "…Could carry me?"

"I _could_, and maybe I will eventually, but not until you wake up and talk to me for a minute."

Finally, Dick opened his eyes. "...'M I in trouble?"

Alfred could tell that Bruce was struggling to hold back laughter. "I don't think so, but I won't know for sure until you answer a couple of questions for me. Can you do that?"

"I guess." He tried to push himself up, but he failed, and only the billionaire's quick reflexes kept him from slumping back to the ground. Once he'd been pulled upright and was leaning against Bruce's side, he hiccupped. "...Sorry, Alfred."

"I forgive you, considering the circumstances." Seeing that the boy was having trouble focusing on him, he crouched down. "Tell me, young sir; you drank the eggnog, didn't you?"

"You said it was – _hic! – _okay!" Dick's lips turned down.

"Yes, I know I gave you some in the kitchen earlier. But that was a bit different than what was being served to the crowd tonight." _I can't believe this,_ he marveled silently. _I've contributed to the delinquency of a child. To the delinquency of one of __my__...well. It was foolish of me, in any case._ "Didn't you notice the change in flavor?"

The youth peered at him. "Yes," he agreed. "But it was still kinda good, so...I drank some."

"You _liked_ the eggnog you drank tonight?" Bruce inquired.

"Well...not _really_. I mean, it was pretty gross, actually. But I just tried to – _hic! Hic! – _think about the part that tasted like what I had earlier. Then it wasn't so bad, except the way it burned on the way down." He paused. "What went wrong with it that it tasted like that?" His eyes widened suddenly. "Did someone poison it? Bruce, did someone try to poison your party?! You have to tell the people who left, they were _all_ drinking it earlier!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bruce, who was now laughing openly, tried to calm the flustered child. "Nobody got poisoned, chum. In fact," he judged, "I think even _you_ escaped that, despite what you downed when no one was looking."

"...Huh?"

"Your 'poison', Master Dick, was bourbon," Alfred contributed. "That is what made the eggnog taste 'gross', to use your word."

"...Bourbon? But...but that's alcohol, isn't it?"

"It is indeed, young sir. And while it is a traditional part of eggnog," he went on, "it's generally not served to children."

"Oh..." Dick wrinkled his nose. "Why do people even drink that stuff? The eggnog was way better without it. No offense, Alfred, but – _hic! – _I think you should have left it the way it was."

"I assure you that I will be careful to leave the bourbon out of your share in holiday seasons to come," the butler promised. A small grin slipped across his lips as he watched the boy sway slightly despite his sturdy supporter. Now that it seemed that he hadn't overdosed on the Christmas beverage, his intoxication was almost cute. "But what on earth inspired you to come back downstairs?" he asked, curious.

"Yeah," Bruce seconded the question. "And how did you get past everyone?" He hesitated. "...No one saw you drinking, did they?"

There was a tone of dread in the billionaire's voice that Alfred could very well understand – heaven only knew what the papers would say if someone leaked that Bruce Wayne's ward had a penchant for liquor – but Dick was already shaking his head. "No. There was no one here when I came in. I woke up and felt thirsty, but I didn't want water. I didn't want the fizzy apple juice I had when I was at the party before, either. All I could think about was the eggnog from earlier, and I remembered that there was a big bowl of it down here. A big bowl," he smiled woozily, "that never got empty. It was like magic, the way it stayed full. I know it's _not _magic, but...it was _like_ magic. I wanted to see that again.

"So I came back downstairs. I thought maybe I wasn't supposed to be at the party in pajamas, but I didn't want to put my suit back on. Plus, I figured it would be a good test of how sneaky I could be. You know," he craned his neck to stare up at Bruce, "like Robin training? If I could get in, get eggnog, and get out without anyone seeing me, how neat would that have been?"

"Sure," the billionaire, his eyes still twinkling with amusement, allowed. "That would have been good."

"But there was nobody here for me to sneak past," Dick went on, his shoulders slumping. "And the bowl was gone, too. I was really sad. Then I saw a cup that someone had left on a table. It was half full, and it looked good. I still wanted to be all ninja-y even though there was no one around, so I climbed under this table and drank it there." He shrugged. "It was kind of gross, like I said, but after I drank it I didn't want any more eggnog." His face contorted suddenly, and he reached for his stomach with one hand. "...In fact, I don't think I want any more eggnog _ever_."

"Are you feeling unwell, Master Dick?" Alfred queried.

"Um..." An unhappy grumble emanated from the boy's midsection. "...Yeah. Like..._really_ sick." He blanched. "...Bruce?"

"Need a bathroom, chum?"

"Now. Help?"

The billionaire had swept the child up off of the floor and was heading for the hall in an instant. "Just hold on," he ordered as they hustled away. "Don't lose it on me, kiddo, whatever you do..."

Alfred watched them go, covering his mouth with one hand to hide the pitying smirk that had appeared there without his permission. While he did feel more than a tad responsible for his younger charge's unfortunate stomach woes, he couldn't help but be somewhat pleased with the way his first foray into drinking had turned out. With any luck tonight's experience would keep the youth uninterested in alcohol until he was not only of age to drink legally but also mature enough to drink responsibly. In his opinion, the headache and nausea that he would have to provide remedies for in the morning were a small price to pay for an inoculation against such a powerful cause of youthful foolishness as booze.

Spotting the cup that had tempted Dick, he picked it up. One edge bore unmistakable traces of lipstick, causing him to shiver in disgust. Just before he put the glass back down in an effort to not think about which of Gotham's high-class femmes fatales Dick had ended up having a drink with, his fingers froze. Wouldn't it be amusing, he thought, to clean the vessel and keep it in hiding until the young master's twenty-first Christmas? He could almost see the look of perplexity on his charge's face as he opened the gift in the distant future. The object would seem vaguely familiar, he was sure, but twelve years would fuzz the memory enough to make its origin story a mildly embarrassing revelation.

They could reminisce then, he dreamed, about the strange December evening when a drunken nine-year-old ninja had sneaked through the halls of Wayne Manor. Perhaps by then enough time would have passed for him to be able to mention the fright he'd received at the side of the pool, and the wild speculations that had flown through his head shortly thereafter. Maybe, he hummed quietly, he would even be able to use the keepsake as leverage to get the boy-turned-young-man to give the family eggnog recipe another try. That would mean another hangover, of course, but at least then it wouldn't be an illegal one.

He would wait and see. Until then – he winced as the sound of helpless retching came from the corridor, followed by a recalcitrant 'sorry, Bruce...' – there were sure to be plenty of other surprises to clean up after.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Poor Dick. I promise I'll treat him better in tomorrow's chapter. Until then, be sure to check out my blog for a look at the glasses I was imagining all that double-strength eggnog being poured into - they're very pretty. Happy reading! <strong>


	4. A Three-Ring Christmas Tree

"_Please_ tell me where we're going?" Dick begged for the third time since they'd left the house.

"Remind me," Bruce replied evenly, "are you fourteen, or four? I forget when you use that tone." While he was glad that his son was so eager to know what was going on, he couldn't take any more pleading. If the teen kept imploring him for an answer he was bound to crack, and he wanted their destination to be a surprise until the very last moment.

The lead-up to this day had begun the previous year, when he'd finally taken Dick to the Gotham Festival of Trees. The Festival had been held for ten seasons running in order to raise money for the various charities that were covered by the wide umbrella of the Wayne Foundation, but it had never occurred to Bruce to actually attend. He got away with such benign neglect because there was no grand party or opening gala for him to play a starring role at, but only a week of public viewing of the dozens upon dozens of specially decorated conifers. Between the small admission price to the show, the sponsorship fee that local businesses paid for a chance to put their name on a display or host a vendor booth, and the silent auction sale of the trees themselves, the event always netted a hefty profit. It didn't need Bruce to be involved, and he had never volunteered.

That had changed thanks to a broken arm. On the night of Black Friday, Robin had ended up chasing after a hijacked armored truck on his motorcycle. Batman had rushed ahead to set a trap for the crooks, who had fallen into the fold like sheep being chased by a particularly skilled herding dog. The spikes had blown out the money carrier's tires instantly, sending it careening into a light pole and causing debris to fly. Robin had stopped well short of the studded strips, but he wasn't quite out of the danger zone. Before either vigilante could react a section of twisted bumper had caught the teen midway between his elbow and his shoulder and ripped him off of his mercifully unmoving bike.

He had been unhurt save for a little road rash and a cracked humerus, but his injuries had been sufficient to ground him through January. Having little else to do as school wound down towards the winter break, Dick had filled his empty hours with television. It was a treat in which he was generally far too busy to indulge, and consequently he had paid as rapt of attention to the commercials as to the shows themselves. Once he had seen the glittering advertisement for the Festival he had been determined to visit the faux-frosted lanes of the civic center, and he had talked of little else for days.

Bruce, unable to deny his child much of anything even when he wasn't sporting scrapes and a sling, had agreed with relatively little cajoling. They spent an entire afternoon examining the sparkling displays, voting for their favorites, and munching on various treats purchased from the sellers scattered throughout the building. The media caught wind of things, naturally, and insisted on an interview with the billionaire before he left. He'd obliged them, and it was during his question and answer session that he'd been set on a path towards further involvement with the Festival.

One of the microphone-wielding crowd had queried as to whether or not _he_ would be sponsoring a tree the following year. He had demurred, but it was too late – the idea had been planted in Dick's head. The remaining three weeks until Christmas had been filled with little hints about how neat it would be put together a theme and see how much it sold for. On one occasion a couple of rough decorating sketches had been 'accidentally' left on Bruce's desk. The boy had caught the bug, and he wouldn't shut up about it.

Only when he was allowed back out on patrol did his comments about making trees merry and bright for charity cease. While night work seemed to have wiped his obsession from Dick's mind, though, it had only cemented it in Bruce's. The Festival, he realized, was exactly the sort of thing that his son would have already been involved with if Batman and Robin didn't exist and he'd been able to have a more normal childhood. It had been heartwarming to see him so wrapped up in something that had absolutely nothing to do with masks or villains or violent crime, and once the spell seemed to have lifted Bruce found himself wanting it to return, if only temporarily.

He had cradled that small hope for twelve months, just waiting for December to come around again. It had been nothing to arrange to purchase one of the bare trees for Dick to decorate, and he had worked with Alfred to come up with a theme and procure all the materials that could possibly be wanted for the task. Everything was waiting for them at the civic center, and it was there that they were headed this morning.

"Fourteen," Dick answered, rolling his eyes. "I can't help it, Bruce! I feel like we're going to do something amazing, but I can't figure out what it is! The closest I can guess is that we're going to pick out a tree at our lot, but if that's what it is then we're kind of taking the long way around. Although...why _haven't_ we gotten the tree yet? It's normally up by the end of Thanksgiving weekend." His eyes narrowed. "Is something going on?"

"You know that answer to that," Bruce replied, biting back a grin. They were less than two minutes from their destination now, and while the teen was getting closer he wasn't likely to ferret out the truth before they parked.

"There's always something going on," Dick sighed, repeating an oft-quoted aphorism of Batman's. "I know that, but _what_?! I hate it when you keep secrets from me," he pouted. "When you manage it, you're really, _really_ good at it."

The car made a left turn into a parking garage and began to ascend. "Just think about where we are," Bruce counseled, "and wait. You'll know soon, I promise. And stop pouting; that's cheating."

"Aaugh!" Dick threw up his hands in mock despair. "This is so awesomely frustrating..."

A minute later the trio was walking down the sidewalk towards the massive building that housed many of the city's smaller events. Bruce could tell that Alfred's excitement was building right along with his own, and a grin slipped onto his lips. This, he was certain, was going to be good...

The front entrance led them onto a balcony that overlooked the cavernous main chamber. Several long rows of blank trees stood waiting for their sponsors, most of who hadn't yet arrived. Men on scaffolding were busy turning the open-beam ceiling into a semblance of a starry night. A large table at the back of the space was doling out free coffee, cocoa, and cookies to the volunteers, all of whom were wearing smiles. It was perfect, and Bruce turned to see his son's reaction.

Dick had been wearing a puzzled frown as they'd approached the doors, but now his mouth went slack. "...Bruce," he whispered disbelievingly, "this...this is the Festival, isn't it? The Festival of Trees, like last year?"

"It will be, yes." He paused. "...You said you wanted to decorate one and see it sell, right?"

"Yeah, but...I didn't think...I mean, there was so much press last year, and you _hate_ that. I honestly didn't think you'd even want to come look at them again." Dick swiveled to face him. "Did you _really_ buy me a tree to decorate, Bruce?"

"You bet I did, chum," he nodded. "And I hope the press _swarms_ it."

There were arms around his neck immediately, and a happy breath brushed past his ear. "Thank you. This is the best Christmas ever."

Bruce squeezed his boy tightly, not caring who was watching. "You're welcome, kiddo. Now," he pushed him back to arm's length, "let's go find your spot. You've got a _lot_ of decorating to do."

Dick blanched. "Oh, no! I didn't have time to think of a theme, or-"

"That's all been taken care of, young sir," Alfred assured. "I think you'll be quite pleased with what you find waiting for you down below."

"I...you guys took care of it?" The wonder in the teen's gaze grew. "Aw...you're the best! C'mon, let's go; I can't wait to see what you came up with..."

"...This is the one," Bruce said shortly thereafter. A robust fir towered over them, rising fifteen feet into the air before it petered out in a perfect point. "Is it acceptable?"

"_Acceptable_?" Dick was all but trembling with joy. "It's _gorgeous_. Oh, man...this is going to make so much money for the Foundation. I just know it."

"I'm sure it will," the billionaire nodded. He felt no qualms about building up the youth's hopes as to how much money his contribution to the sale might bring in, as he had already arranged for this particular tree to be the high seller and to furthermore be delivered to his own living room at the end of the show. But Dick didn't need to know any of that just yet; today was about decorating and dreaming, and in his opinion it was high time those activities got underway. "See the sign?" he asked, pointing out a piece of paper propped up against the lowest branches. "That's your sponsor and your theme."

Dick's breath caught as he read the sheet. "...Sponsored by Haly's Circus," he murmured. "'A Three-Ring Christmas Tree'."

"Is that all okay with you, chum?" Bruce whispered as his son leaned into him again. "It's something that's never been done before for the Festival, and we figured that there's no one who could possibly do it better than you."

A sniffle sounded, but when Dick straightened he was wearing a smile. "It's perfect," he announced. "It's just...perfect."

They soon found that the many items Alfred had procured for decorating were equally flawless. There were gorgeous ceramic bulbs covered with vivaciously colored polka dots and stripes and chevrons; long chains of silk scarves that worked marvelously as garland; handsome tigers and horses and fire-eaters and fortune tellers, all made of hand-painted blown glass; and even a few grinning acrobats, who looked so at home hanging amongst the boughs that one could almost believe they had grown out of the tree itself. A heavy length of Indian tapestry appeared from the bottom of a plastic tote to serve as a tree skirt. The lights, they discovered, had been pre-set to flash in time with the calliope music that emitted from a tiny speaker hidden somewhere along the wire. In short the butler had forgotten nothing, and the teen's joy at the selection he'd been offered was palpable.

Bruce stood back and sipped coffee while he watched his son work. Dick flitted around the tree like the little bird that he secretly was, tucking something in here, adjusting a light there, and slowly making his way higher. Eventually a ladder was required, and the process was delayed by the necessity of moving it every time he wanted to tackle a new section of greenery. More and more people began to leave their own trees in order to compliment Dick's, holding the show up even further. For once in his life, though, the billionaire didn't mind the excessive wait; his boy was glowing with happiness, and that was enough to keep him satisfied.

Finally the boy ventured back to his side. "It looks good," Bruce said seriously. "Damn good."

But Dick shook his head. "...Something's missing."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. I feel like I should, though..."

"Excuse me, Master Dick?"

They both looked down from the tree to find Alfred standing nearby with his hands behind his back. "What's up, Alfred?" Dick asked.

"The problem, young sir, is what _isn't_ up. Namely, the tree topper." He brought forth a metal elephant with a gilded blanket across its back and its trunk held high in celebration. "I think you'll find that this fills the hole you were just discussing."

Bruce had a sneaking suspicion that the item had been specially ordered for this exact moment, and he couldn't help but be impressed. "That's legitimately beautiful," he remarked.

"Handmade," the butler informed him as Dick reached forward with a little coo to take the creature, "and fit for many, many Christmases to come."

"Wooow..." The teen was all but cradling the elephant, his fingertips skating gently along its cool hide. "You know...I'm actually really, really jealous of whoever ends up buying this tree. I mean, they get to keep all of the ornaments, and...well. I just hope they go to a good home, that's all."

When Dick had turned away in order to climb the ladder a final time, Bruce and Alfred exchanged sneaky smirks. "I don't think we have to worry about that, do you?" Bruce asked.

"...No, sir," the butler answered confidently, tipping him a wink. "I don't think we need to worry about that in the least."

* * *

><p>Bruce made it a point to come home early on the afternoon that the Festival trees were delivered to their purchasers. Once there he sat in the living room with a stack of projections reports and waited. The crew that had carted the fir up from the heart of the city had only been gone for twenty minutes when he heard the front door close in the foyer. Dick's voice floated down the hall to him, carrying the electric excitement that all schoolchildren feel at the beginning of a vacation. "...The living room? Did we finally get a tree, then? We should decorate it when Bruce gets home. We're cutting it kind of clo-"<p>

He broke off as he stepped through the doorway and came face to face with item that had been dropped off during his absence. "...My tree," he whispered, a broad grin spilling across his face. "Why...why's it _here_, though?"

"Because this is where it belongs, chum," Bruce answered quietly, announcing his presence.

Dick turned wide, dancing eyes on him. "...You bought it?" he ventured.

"Yes. Is that okay?"

"Of course! But...did it make a lot of money for the Foundation?

"It was the top-selling tree this year by a margin of five hundred dollars."

"Five _hundred_? It sold for that much?!"

"No. It sold for five hundred _more_ than the top seller. The total amount you raised with your tree was three thousand, six hundred and eleven dollars." A beat passed as Dick visibly struggled to lift his jaw back into place. "That's a new record, by the way."

"I...you...what...what was the next tree? Which one got five hundred less than mine?"

Tickled by how things had turned out, Bruce chuckled. "Yours did."

"...Huh?" The teen shook his head. "I'm so confused..."

"Here. Come sit down with me." When he'd obeyed, Bruce went on. "Your tree was the top seller even before I got involved."

"No way!" Dick exclaimed, boggling at the riotous conifer gracing the far end of the living room.

"It was. But I'll tell you a secret; there was never any chance of your tree going into anyone's house but mine, no matter how much other people bid."

"...There wasn't?" A knowing look was turned on him. "What did you do?"

"I made an arrangement to pay five hundred more than whatever the highest bid on _any_ tree turned out to be."

"When did you do _that_?"

"Before you even knew you had a tree to decorate, kiddo."

The teen stared at him for a long second. "You...you really did, didn't you?" he breathed. "You did that. You did that for me."

"I did. I did that for you." _And for me,_ he added silently as Dick latched onto him in a tight hug. _Seeing you happy for an instant is worth every penny I have._

"...Thank you," came eventually. "I love that tree. I love everything on it. I've been thinking about it ever since I decorated it, and...and you knew. You knew, and you bought it for me." He sighed. "You're the best, dad. I love you."

Bruce closed his eyes, squeezed the figure in his arms tighter, and savored those last seven words. When he was relatively certain that he wasn't going to burst into tears, he opened his mouth to reply. "I'm glad you're happy," he said hoarsely. "...Merry Christmas, son." _…I love you, too..._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: We just had our local Festival of Trees here in Fairbanks this weekend, and walking through the displays gave me the idea for this little story. Lots of towns and cities have Festivals, and if you live near one you should definitely check it out. The money usually goes to a good cause, and it's great fun no matter how young or old you are. I've posted a few pictures from Festivals that I felt matched what I was imagining for Gotham on my blog. I will also be posting a really fabulous photo that gives an idea of what Christmas at Wayne Manor might look like a little later. Happy reading, and see you tomorrow!<strong>


	5. Skating is for Lovers

Barbara had been walking again for six months, and it still amazed her every time she did it. Tonight was no exception, and as she stepped out of the car and into the cool night she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. So many people had played a role in her long recovery, and she wished that there was some way she could thank them all...

"May I escort you, pretty lady?" Dick spoke suddenly from beside her.

She smiled. No one had been more ecstatic about her recent breakthroughs than the man at her side. If there was anyone who deserved as much thanks as the researchers and surgeons who had made her rehabilitation physically possible, it was Dick. He had been her personal cheerleader since the night the Joker's bullet had nicked her spine, persevering despite her fits of pique, her attempts to find happiness with other men, and the travails of his own life. She might not be able to say thank you to each person who had helped her get to where she was today, but she could show Dick how much she appreciated his stubbornness, and that was almost as good.

Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, she let him lead her down the sidewalk. As they walked she couldn't help but marvel at the way he matched his pace to her own so expertly. Dick never did anything slowly, and yet he seemed content to dawdle along at her reduced speed. Sighing happily, she scooted a little closer and shot a glare at a passing woman who was giving her boyfriend the eye. _Mine, bitch,_ an unbidden growl rolled through her brain, startling her. _...Oh. Well, then..._ Apparently Dick's possessiveness had started to run both ways at some point, and she just hadn't noticed until tonight.

His voice broke into her thoughts before she could dwell on what her visceral reaction might mean. "I have a surprise for you," he said.

"You do? I thought we were here to see the tree." Gotham's official city Christmas tree was the tallest ever this year, and he had lured her out into the chilly night with the prospect of taking a stroll around its base. "What are we _actually_ doing?"

"We're going to see the tree, don't worry," he promised. "But first we're going to do something else." Coming to a stop, he gestured at the expanse of groomed ice that lay to their right. "Milady...your kingdom for the evening, if you so choose."

Barbara stared in mild shock at the empty skating rink. "There's no one here," she breathed. But that wasn't possible, surely; it was December, after all, and this space was practically a national landmark. There should have been dozens of people gliding about, and yet the gleaming surface didn't even bear the marks of recent passage. "Dick," she murmured, her fingers tightening on his arm as she gathered what her surprise was. "...You didn't."

"Oh, I so did," he verified. "I know it's been a while, Babs, but I remember how much you used to love ice skating." He grinned. "Heck, it was what we did on out first date, remember?"

"Was it?" They had had several 'first' dates since that long-ago night, thanks primarily to her waffling, but if she thought hard she could recall the instance he was referring to. "...You're right. It was. But Dick-"

"It's okay," he stopped her before she could give voice to her hesitation. "We won't do anything crazy. I rented out the whole place for the next two hours, so there's no one to bump into you. And don't worry, I don't expect us to go out there and dance the way we used to. We'll just take our time and stick together. I won't let you fall, I promise."

She was still nervous, but a combination of his reassurance and her love of the sport convinced her to take a chance. "Okay. But I'm probably going to look like a newborn deer out there."

"Well that's no problem, then. Those little guys get their legs under them quick." Wrapping an arm around her waist, he started towards the entrance to the rink. "You'll be perfect, Babs. It's just who you are."

"Flatterer," he accused, but there was no ire behind the word. She allowed herself to be led up to the admission booth, and soon her shoes had been replaced with skates. It took her body a minute to remember how to balance itself on the narrow blades, but by the time Dick had laced up she was standing without holding onto the wall. "Are you ready?" she asked when he looked up at her and smiled.

"Are you?" he batted back.

"I'm…as ready as I'm probably ever going to be."

His gloved hand reached out for hers. "Then let's take a spin."

She minced to the edge of the ice, then paused. A hard fall could destroy all of her progress, she knew, but Dick had been right when he'd recalled her old passion for gliding smoothly through the winter air. Now that she'd been reminded of it she wanted nothing more than to reclaim the feeling of freedom skating had once given her. _Three-year-olds skate,_ she told herself firmly, _and they're not that far removed from learning to walk. If they can do it, you can._ Holding her breath, she stepped forward.

For a second she just stood, trying to relax her joints. Dick's arm cinched around her waist once more as he joined her, and suddenly they were moving. Barbara gasped and grabbed hold of him for support, but they were already slowing to a halt. He'd put only enough strength behind his push to nudge them away from the entrance, but that tiny bit of forward motion had broken down a wall in her mind. She had moved across the ice on skates, and had not fallen; so long as he stayed with her, there was no reason why the feat couldn't be repeated.

He seemed to sense when she was ready to go again, and this time he put a bit more effort into things. Curving gently, they moved into the center of the rink. Barbara was clutching her guide's shoulder so tightly that she was sure she was leaving bruises, but she was also beginning to smile. The next time Dick launched them she felt the wind of their passage lift her hair momentarily, and a squeaky cry of joy escaped her. "Oh, god," she blushed. "That was an incredibly embarrassing noise."

"I liked it," he rebutted. "And I fully intend to make you do it again." With that he pushed off at full strength, adding a few propellant shoves so that they slid the entire length of the oval without stopping. The pitch of her giggles went up as her half-terrified, half-delighted brain labored to decide whether she should be laughing or screaming. As they approached the far wall at speed it settled on the latter, but before her cry could pass her lips Dick had spun around and inserted himself between her and the barrier. His skates threw up a light spray of ice as he braked, and she slid gently into his arms as he hit the boards with a faint _thunk. _"…Told you I'd make you do it again," he teased.

Every nerve she possessed was humming. She kissed him hard, then issued a challenge. "Want to try for three?"

"You know it."

The longer they frolicked on the ice the more daring she became. Before long she let go of Dick's shoulder and began to push herself along while holding only his hand. Soon after that she had released him entirely and was gliding short distances without any help. He followed her doggedly, hanging back just far enough that she didn't feel crowded as she explored her own capabilities. She wasn't ready to try any of the fancy moves that she had once been capable of, but she knew that, barring any setbacks, that day would come again. With a start she discovered that she was more comfortable in her own body tonight than she had been in years. Her boyfriend had given her more than just a fun outing; he'd given her back a measure of her independence.

And yet there he was, still behind her. She glanced backwards at him and found not the concern that she'd expected but rather delight on his face. He wasn't tailing her because he feared that she would fall or run away, she realized, but because he was enjoying seeing her so happy. Suddenly wanting contact, she changed course and reached out for his fingers. He fell into position as easily as if they had never stopped skating together, and they slowly circled their joined hands several times. "...What am I going to do with you?" Barbara sighed eventually.

"Do with me?" Dick replied, arching a suggestive eyebrow.

"Not like that. What I mean is, how can I possibly give you a better Christmas present than the one you gave me tonight? You know how I feel about my freedom, and...and I feel more free now than I have in a very long time. I don't know how to repay that."

"Yeeeah..." He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "The thing is, this isn't your Christmas present. In fact, I'm a little afraid that your love of freedom might keep you from liking what I _really_ got you."

"It's not handcuffs, is it?" she joked.

"No," he chuckled. "I _know _you'd like those. No, it's – whoa!"

Her breath caught as his feet went out from under him without warning. For safety's sake she should have released his fingers in order to minimize the chances of being pulled down with him. Her reflex, though, was to tighten her grip in an effort to save him from a hard landing. He hit the ice anyway, but he landed on one knee instead of on his face.

They stared at one another for a second before Barbara put together what had just happened. The 'slip' had been calculated, she deduced, as had the familiar position Dick was in now. "...Oh, you clever bastard," she whispered lovingly.

"Aw, you guessed it," he mock-complained. A velvet box appeared in his hand as if by magic. "...They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome," Dick said with more seriousness than his voice usually carried. He opened the lid to reveal what was, in her opinion at least, the most beautiful of the trio of engagement rings he had now offered her. "...I guess that just means that I'm crazy about you."

The city's cacophonous clocks rang out as he finished, marking the tenth hour of the evening. The rink was now technically closed, but no one called out for them to come off of the ice. Barbara looked around, desperate to remember every detail of this night, of this moment. How many men, she wondered, would have willingly reintroduced her to the sense of limitless possibilities that she'd always felt when she was on the ice or in the air, let alone used the opportunity as the preamble to a marriage proposal? As much as she loved the man kneeling before her, she couldn't possibly tie herself down in marriage when she'd just been reminded of how far she could go on her own. It was as if he had set himself up to fail.

She turned back to his patiently waiting gaze, and that was when the truth struck her. Dick's request wasn't an attempt to get her to give up any of the independence he'd been so instrumental in returning to her over the last hours, months, and years; he just wanted permission to be her partner in her exploration of her own freedom. Something within her clicked into place, and she pulled him to his feet.

As he rose his face filled with the same heartbreak she had been responsible for putting there several times before. Before he could speak, though, she stopped him. "Dick...it's not crazy if it works."

A slow, brilliant smile dawned. "…Yes?!"

She nodded once. "Yes."

"…Give me your hand," he whispered eagerly.

Beaming just as broadly as he was, she obliged. The ring was a perfect fit, and as it sparkled against her skin Barbara swore that this time_she_ wouldn't be the one who took it off. Then the world shifted, and another one of those damnedly girlish little shrieks tore out of her.

Dick smirked from his higher position in their dip. "Third time's the charm, pretty lady," he said, claiming victory.

"I concede," she answered, laughing. "...Now kiss me, you dork."

Their lips met beneath the lights, and she was happy.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Those of you who were enjoying the young Dick stories, don't worry! There are plenty more of those to come between now and the 25th. Tomorrow we'll have another adult Dick story, where he'll be accompanied by not one, not two, but all three of his brothers. Happy reading!<strong>


	6. New Traditions, Part 1

Alfred glanced down the dish-cluttered table and, judging his charges to be more or less finished with their Christmas dinner, cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he said when he had their attention, "I have one final surprise for you."

"I don't know if I can take it, Alfred," Dick joked. "Today's already been so awesome I think I might be in shock."

"Oh, I daresay you'll come around a bit when you hear that there's a horse involved," he replied with a tiny smile. As he'd known it would, the mention of an animal caused five sets of eyebrows to go up.

"A _horse_?" Tim repeated, his voice uncertain.

"A horse!" Dick cheered.

"What do we need a horse for, exactly?" Bruce inquired.

"Yeah," Jason and Damian seconded simultaneously. They exchanged a cautious look, and then the younger of the pair went on. "I'm _not_ picking up after it. I wade through enough crap around here."

"I'll do it!" Dick volunteered. "What's his name, Alfred?"

"I'm afraid I didn't ask what their names are, young sir."

"'_Their_' names?!" Bruce and Tim both sputtered.

Alfred could barely keep his grin contained. He had hoped that his method of announcing his surprise would cause a little commotion, but this was turning out far better than he'd dared to hope. Dick was wearing an eager look identical to the one he'd worn as a little boy on this same day of the year; Bruce and Tim's expressions were incredulous; and Jason and Damian were struggling to hide their curiosity behind facades of mild annoyance. All in all, the evening was off to a very good start.

"...As for your concern, Master Damian," he went on, "you needn't have one; they will be here only temporarily."

"Aww," Dick pouted.

"Good," Bruce opined. "Sorry, chum, but there's enough going on around here without horses being thrown into the mix."

"Yeah...but hey, at least we get to have them for a little while!" Dick beamed once more. "So what's the plan, Alfred?"

"If you'll all accompany me out to the front lawn, you'll see."

"Ah...is this going to take long?" Jason broke in as everyone else stood up. "I have a patrol to get to."

"We all do," Tim shot back, "but we're still going."

Alfred busied himself with stacking plates, but his ears were riveted to the conversation. While it wasn't a shock that Jason was itching to leave – his tentative reconciliation with the rest of the family was only six months old, after all, and today marked the longest stretch of time he'd been at home since then – it was crucial that he stayed for this last thing. The special treat waiting outside had been arranged specifically because this was the first holiday that all five of the butler's young ones had spent under the same roof; if Jason left now it would take some of the joy out of it.

Fortunately Dick could talk his little brothers into just about anything. "C'mon, Jay," he urged. "You're not _really_ ready for Christmas to end just yet, are you? Don't you want to see what the surprise is? If _Bruce_ doesn't even know about it, it's sure to be amazing. Besides," he added as Jason opened his mouth to rebut, "you've got a suit downstairs now. Just go into town with us later. You could ride in the car, and no one would be able to see. We'll find a nice empty spot to drop you off, and-"

"Okay!" Jason cut him off. "...Okay. Fine. I'm coming. Let's just go already; I've got stuff to do tonight."

"Great! Then let's go!" With that Dick draped an arm each across Tim and Damian's obviously tensed shoulders and led them out of the room. "See you in the foyer!"

When the other three were gone, Bruce spoke. "Jason?"

Jason paused midway through rising from his seat. "Yeah?"

"...Thank you for staying a little longer."

The younger man stared for a moment, then blushed. "Yeah, well...Dick asked, so..."

"I know," Bruce nodded. "He's good at winning people over. But I'm still...ah...still glad you said yes."

"Mm," Jason half-grunted, not meeting his surrogate father's gaze. "Well...I guess we'll see if it was worth it in a minute." Realization that he'd said the wrong thing dawned on his face as the billionaire flinched. "I meant...ah, sh-..._crap_...look, we should go," he gave up on his weak backpedaling. "They'll be waiting for us."

"...Sure," Bruce agreed. There was still pain lurking in the knit of his brow, but he managed a tiny smile. "Let's not keep them waiting."

"Be sure you all bundle up well, sir," Alfred requested just before they vanished into the hall. "We don't want anyone getting cold."

"Right..."

Once he was alone in the dining room he stopped his make-work and pressed his clenched fists against the fine old table. Leaning his weight against his knuckles, he let out a heartsick but grateful sigh. Family was never easy, and that went double at this time of the year, but his own seemed to finally, _finally_ be working. It had taken years and a hundred little nudging encounters to get them all to this admittedly still contentious point, but things were slowly improving. The many thoughtful items that had come out from under the tree with his name on them this morning meant nothing in comparison to that simple gift.

And now it was time for the family event – the new tradition, he hoped – that he had been secretly awaiting all day. Straightening, he smoothed out his jacket and headed for the door. _...I assure you, Master Jason,_ he thought as he went, _this __will__ be worth it._

* * *

><p>The sleigh sitting on the front lawn was everything Alfred had been told it would be when he'd arranged to rent it for the evening. Two risered benches provided ample seating behind the driver's post, and the matched pair waiting in the traces were some of the best horseflesh he'd seen in many years. It was to them that Dick went immediately once the initial shock of the revelation had worn off. Damian trailed behind him, while Bruce began a careful examination of the sturdy contraption they would be riding in.<p>

That left Tim and Jason on the porch with the butler. He glanced between them, hoping that he might see a bit of progress made in their ever-stormy relationship, but it was not to be. As soon as they realized they were almost alone together, both grunted and split off to their own devices. Tim headed for Bruce, while Jason, still evincing his desire to get the evening over and done with, climbed into the top corner of the sleigh and claimed one of the folded blankets that had been left there for the riders. Saddened but not surprised, Alfred determined to make the best out of what they had, took a deep breath, and descended the front steps.

"Well, young sirs, what do you think of our engines?" he inquired as he drew up to the front of their conveyance.

"They're total sweethearts," Dick answered from somewhere between the pair of horse heads that were busy nuzzling him. "Aren't you, you big cuddly ponies? Gaah," he said as a nose explored his ear. "Warn a guy before you do that next time, would you?"

Alfred smiled. If nothing else came of tonight, he would know that he'd made Dick extremely happy. _That's one_, he noted. Seeing the way Damian was hanging back from the large creatures his brother was currently making friends with, he decided to try and increase that number before they left the house. Reaching into the pouch that hung in front of the driver's seat, he pulled out a pair of sugar cubes. "Master Damian? Would you care to give the horses a treat?"

The boy hesitated. "...A treat?" he repeated skeptically.

"Yes. Here, hold your hand very flat – just like that – and let them take it from you."

"Don't curl your fingers when he snuffles your hand," Dick advised, stepping back to make room for his sibling. "I got bit by a horse once doing that. It didn't feel very good."

"I'm not afraid of being bitten, Grayson."

"I know, Dami. It's just a little advice, that's all. And speaking of advice, you should take off your glove."

"...Why?"

"So you can feel him take the sugar. It's no fun if you can't feel it."

Damian blinked, clearly considering the proposal. "...Okay," he said finally, and stripped his hand down to the skin. "Here, horse," he said, and shoved the cube towards the closer animal. It recoiled with a huff.

"Slow, Dami," Dick urged. "Slow and gentle. He doesn't know you yet."

But the animal had caught the smell of sugar and was apparently willing to forgive Damian his rude approach in exchange for the snack. An extremely rare giggle sounded when velvety lips brushed the boy's palm. It was quickly cut off, but it rang out long enough for Dick and Alfred to share a delighted smile.

Damian was _not_ smiling when he turned around, but rather looked both mortified and angry. "Why didn't you tell me it would tickle!?" he demanded of his brother.

"I didn't know it would tickle you _that_ much," Dick defended himself good-naturedly. "Besides, I like it when you laugh. You had fun just now, and I know it even if you won't admit it. So here." Taking the second sugar cube from Alfred, he pushed it towards the preteen. "...Have some more fun. It's not fair if you only feed one of them."

A glare was the only response given, and for a moment Alfred thought that Damian might stomp away, miffed. Then he took the sugar, albeit with a mutter that sounded an awful lot like cursing, and turned to the second of the beasts. "...Here, horse," he said again, but both his voice and his approach were gentler this time. "_Don't_ tickle me, got it?"

The white block had just disappeared sans giggling when Bruce drew up. "How do you find the sleigh, sir?" Alfred inquired. He knew that the contraption was perfectly sound, but he'd also anticipated that his eldest charge would want to examine it for himself before he allowed it to carry his children.

"It looks good, but what's the plan? Jason had a point earlier; we need to get out on patrol before too late."

Alfred felt a slight frown bow his lips. "...Master Wayne, I told you all to dress warmly for a reason."

"So you plan for us to be out for a while, then." A grimace appeared.

"Stop that," he ordered more sharply than he meant to. Once he'd started he found that he couldn't stop until he was finished airing his grievance with Bruce's attitude. "Stop with your grimacing and groaning and sticking to habit. For once, sir, just _stop_. It is Christmas night, and a rather special Christmas night at that. You told Master Jason just a few minutes ago that you were glad he'd decided to stay for this, and now you're upset that it will go on longer than you'd thought it would? Tell me, does that make sense to you?"

Bruce shifted, his expression becoming sheepish. "...No," he admitted. "But-"

"But _nothing._ These next few hours have been carefully planned out and arranged so that we might all spend them together in some happy pursuit. I'll not see this evening be spoiled by your inability to stay home one night out of three hundred and sixty five, Bruce. If you must go out later, then fine, but for now we have other activities on the docket."

His ire cooled as quickly as it had heated, and he let his posture relax. He was fortunate, he realized, that none of the boys seemed to have overheard him; Jason was doing something on his phone from his seat in the sleigh, Dick and Damian were petting the horses and talking, and Tim was out of sight near the rear of their transport. Only Bruce had been privy to his upset, so it was to him that he turned back. "...If you can forgive me my outburst, sir," he said evenly after a beat had passed, "we ought to corral the young masters and be on our way. It's about a forty-five minute drive from here to our destination, and we may wish to stop along the trail if we see something worth looking at."

The billionaire gave him a knowing and unusually respectful look. "_Is _there something worth looking at along the way, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne, there is," he said, tipping his hand slightly. "I guarantee it."

"Okay. Then...than I guess I'll get the boys."

"Thank you, sir." With that Alfred smiled, relieved that there didn't seem to be any grudge being held for the dressing-down he'd just delivered. "...You won't regret it."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: This story was not originally intended to be a two-parter, but as I was writing this first part I kept coming up with fun stuff for the boys to do while they're out and about with the sleigh. As a result, we'll see what else Alfred's surprise entails tomorrow. In the meantime I've posted a picture of the sleigh on my blog, so check it out if you'd like!<strong>


	7. New Traditions, Part 2

"Alfred, where're we going?" Dick's voice called out some ten minutes later.

"You'll see soon enough, young sir," the butler replied without taking his eyes off of the trail. They were on one of the back roads that made the miles of forest around the Manor accessible, and getting lost was therefore impossible, but he wanted to be the first to spot the surprise that he knew would be coming into view at any moment. "Ah-ha," he murmured beneath the jingle of the horses' bells as a flash of light came through the trees. "That ought to get them wondering..."

"Were those lights up ahead?" Tim queried as if on cue.

"You saw that too?" Dick asked. "I only caught a glimpse, but it kind of looked like headlights."

"That's not right," Bruce rumbled. "There shouldn't be anyone else on the property. Alfred-"

"Relax, sir," he soothed. "There's no danger. I was expecting those lights, even if you were not."

A beat passed. "...Oh," three tones said at once.

"What is it?" Damian pressed. "A car, so we can ride the rest of the way to wherever we're going like normal people?"

"Since when are we normal people?" Jason snorted.

"...I hate to agree with him," Tim put in, "but he has a point."

"Maybe _you're_ not normal, Drake, but-"

"Boys," Bruce cut off the beginnings of the argument with a single word.

"...It's not a car, Master Damian," Alfred said when peace seemed to have been restored, "but I daresay you'll like it in any case. Just be patient."

"Great," a snarky comment came. "Patience is my favorite thing."

Another minute passed as they rounded a gentle curve. A thick patch of conifers blocked out all but the barest hints of light from their destination, and as a result Alfred's secret held until the last possible moment.

"...You weren't kidding when you said there was something worth looking at along the way, Alfred," Bruce commented as their first stop came into full view. "That's a nice tree."

"It is," Tim agreed. "I like the color."

"Well, you can't go wrong with Nightwing blue," Dick joked.

"Pretty sure that's _not_ that color's actual name," Jason said idly.

"Hey! It's not Grayson's fault that the people who name colors are idiots," Damian leaped in.

"I didn't say it was, did I?"

Alfred pulled back on the reins and slowed the sleigh to a stop beside the gaily lit tree. Turning around in his seat, he surveyed the crew behind him. No one moved. "Regardless of who said what, sirs," he hinted finally, "the gifts aren't going to collect themselves."

"Gifts?" Damian perked up immediately. "Where?"

"They're on the branches," Jason answered, pointing. "The tree's too bright to actually let you see the presents, but you can see the shadows."

"Oh, yeah..." The preteen stood up and made to jump to the ground.

"Wait, please, Master Damian," Alfred bade him to halt. "...The gifts on this tree are for one person only."

Everyone looked at Dick. "Wait...really?" he asked, looking confused. "All the presents on this tree are for _me_?"

"The tree _is_ 'Nightwing blue'," Tim chuckled. "It makes sense."

"I guess so, but...what about everybody else?"

Alfred arched an eyebrow. "Master Dick, I hardly have a track record of leaving people out of celebrations, do I?"

"Well no, but...wait." He considered the butler for the space of a breath. "...There's a tree for each of us out here, isn't there? Alfred, that's _perfect!"_

"Trees that are done up in our costume colors," Tim tacked on. "It's smart, although I don't know how you'd do one for Batman that can be seen at night."

"Clever," Bruce muttered.

"It's...not bad," Jason allowed, sounding a bit impressed.

Only Damian hesitated to give praise. "...There's _really_ one for each of us?"

"Yes, Master Damian," Alfred nodded. "I assure you that there is a Robin tree up the road, and that every tree holds the same number of gifts. Is that satisfactory?"

The boy sat back down and turned to his eldest brother. "...Hurry up. I want to get to my presents."

"I'm going, I'm going," Dick agreed. "Keep your jacket on, little brother." Hopping down into the snow, he made his way into the light and then back out. "...Wow, that thing really is _bright_ when you get up close to it," he said, blinking hard as he climbed back into the sleigh. "Like, painfully so."

"I'm afraid it had to be, Master Dick." _Otherwise,_ he added silently, _it wouldn't have been a proper representation of its owner._ Unwilling to share that sentiment out loud, he quickly changed the subject. "Did you collect all five items?"

"Yup. I've got them all."

"Here, then." He passed back a small bag of blue velvet shot through with silver strands. "For safekeeping."

"Sweet! Thanks, this is way easier than trying to juggle everything until the end of the line."

"Not that you couldn't have managed it," Bruce teased wryly.

"Sure, but what if it's a long ride? My arms would be too tired to open the paper!"

"In regards to opening your gifts, I must ask you all to refrain from doing so until we've reached our final destination," Alfred advised. "Otherwise you'll lessen the fun."

Dick pulled the drawstring on his bag tight. "Whatever you say, Santa," he grinned. "...So who's next?"

Next was Tim, whose spruce was done up in red and gold. Strands of lights had been criss-crossed diagonally through the limbs, creating a grid of diamonds that lit the tree without making it as blinding as Dick's had been. Round baubles – again in red and gold, and featuring simple patterns of wavy lines, interlocking triangles, and tiny dots – hung at even intervals. "No question who that's for," Bruce said as they pulled up alongside it.

"You're up, Timmy!" Dick announced.

"...Wow, Alfred," Tim breathed. "That tree is amazing."

"Do you like it, Master Tim?" he looked back to ask. Receiving an awed nod, he felt pride swell in his stomach. "...Excellent. I hoped you would. Go on, now; here's your bag."

When Tim's black-and-red striped sack was full, they went on. Alfred tensed slightly in the driver's seat, uncertain of how the next stop would be received. He had exercised great caution in decorating a tree for Jason, fully aware that any perceived slight could put a damper on the evening or, in the worst-case scenario, ruin it entirely. It was bad enough that Tim's gifts had come before Jason's in the line, but every time he'd calculated which of them would be better able to wait to tear into their gifts Tim had come out on top. As if that wasn't enough, he'd had to design the elder's tree twice, as his first attempt had incorporated the use of a small amount of silver. Realizing only days earlier that the color might be construed to indicate a lesser status than Tim's gold, he'd made what changes he could without leaving the two looking identical, which would surely have been just as terrible a faux pas.

"Oooh, Jay, this one's yours for sure," Dick opined when the end result drew near. "I like it. It's fiery." Left with few options that he couldn't imagine being somehow taken as an insult, Alfred had resorted to drawing inspiration from the element with which he'd always mostly closely associated his middle charge. He had layered red lights and satiny reflective garland heavily through the bottom third of the tree, then slowly increased the spacing as he moved up. A few gold lights near the top suggested the tip of a giant flame while also placing this display firmly on the same hypothetical value level as Tim's. Holding his breath now, he waited for judgment.

"I've...never seen a tree like that before," Jason marveled slowly.

"It looks like it's on fire," Tim contributed.

"It looks _awesome,"_ Jason snapped, clearly taking the comment as a jab. "I mean...no. No, that _is_ what I mean." His boots hit the snow. "...This tree is awesome, Alfred. I like it."

"Alfred," Dick said quietly as they watched the third set of gifts be collected, "you're a total genius."

"I was wondering what you'd done for Jason's," Bruce tacked on. "...I should have known better than to worry."

"Now I _really_ want to see mine," Damian said impatiently.

"And not just for the presents anymore," Tim teased.

The boy rolled his eyes_._ "Tsk. Obviously."

Jason's presents went into a quilted red silk bag that tied with a thick golden cord, and they took off once more. Alfred could feel childish anticipation building behind him, and wondered vaguely if he was risking being 'accidentally' kicked by the boy seated behind him when it was revealed that the Robin tree was last. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he unconsciously scooted towards the front edge of his chair anyway as they approached the penultimate gift station.

The silver-clad offering to Batman shimmered ghost-like at the edge of the road. A black tree had, of course, been as impossible to make as it was unacceptable for its symbolism, but metallic gray had proved an ideal substitute. The lights were buried back against the trunk and purposefully half-obscured, but between what little glow they gave off and the partial moonlight that reflected off of an array of polished ornaments the tree was surprisingly visible. It seemed to hover, as if it might disappear into the forest without a trace at any moment, and seeing it now for the first time in the dark Alfred was pleased.

"How did you _do_ that?" Dick gasped.

"It's like it's both lit and _not_ lit," Jason mused. "...How _did_ you do that?"

He pulled the horses to a halt and swiveled around to answer. "Silver fingernail polish, believe it or not," he revealed. "You simply paint half of a clear bulb with it and leave the other half untouched. It has quite a stunning effect, doesn't it?"

"Stunning," Damian smirked. "I get it."

Alfred frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

The boy sighed in exasperation. "Stunning. Because Batman stuns people instead of killing them?"

Tim groaned. "Jesus, Damian, when did you start making Dick jokes?"

"Heh," Jason guffawed.

Damian wheeled on Tim. "That wasn't a dick jo-...oh. Ugh. Drake, I swear..." He trailed off.

"I think it's great," Dick grinned. "Between you, me, and Tim we'll make the whole family punny. The laughter will never stop!"

"And then we'll all be thrown into Arkham because we're unable to stop imitating hyenas. Great plan, Dick," Jason deadpanned.

"I don't think they let you have Christmas presents in Arkham," Bruce said as he stood up and stretched. "Frankly, that wouldn't work for me."

"In that case, sir, you'd best go and get yours," Alfred said, offering him a black velvet pouch with a frosted sheen to it. "We're nearly there now; you won't have to hold them for long."

"We still have to stop at mine," Damian reminded pointedly.

"Relax, little brother," Dick urged. "I'll bet yours is the best out of all of them."

"...It better be, as long as I've had to wait for it."

Alfred was sorely tempted to point out that they didn't have to stop at the final station at all if he was going to be ungrateful about things, but he held his tongue. The impatience Damian was evincing was exactly the reason why his tree was at the end; had it come earlier in the order he was sure that the boy would have ruined the grand finale by opening his gifts under the cover of darkness and the noise of the sleigh's passage. This way, he hoped he could draw out his last secret just a little bit longer.

"...There you are, Master Damian," he announced a few minutes later. "Was that worth waiting for, do you think?"

"Dami, it's so _you_!" Dick exclaimed as they approached a red, green, and gold-speckled tree. "Look, it's even got little glass icicles on it!"

"Are those because you like to stab people?" Tim's joke was followed by a pained protest. "Ow! Don't hit me, you little-"

"Boys," Bruce warned for the second time since they'd left the house.

"Want me to stab _you_, Drake?"

"Dami, c'mon-"

"I'll bet Todd would even help."

"_Damian_!"

"Well, am I wrong?! Todd? Am I?"

Alfred yanked the horses to a rough stop well short of where he'd planned to pull over. "Master Damian," he ground out without looking around, "you'll be waiting much longer than you already have for the presents on your tree if you continue to make threats. Is that understood?"

Every single one of the people seated behind him had been subjected to the penalties of that dangerous tone before, and now they all fell into a nervous silence. "Well?" he asked eventually.

"...Yes," a mumble came.

"Apologize to your brother," Bruce barked.

"...Sorry."

"Master Wayne?" Alfred was inclined to let the child have his gifts, if only to preserve what lay a bit further up the trail for the others, but he would let Bruce decide.

The billionaire let a beat pass before he spoke. "If I ever hear you say something like that again, Damian, you'll be grounded for a month. Got it?"

"Yes."

"...You can pull up, Alfred."

"Very well, sir." When he'd stopped the sleigh again, he handed over Damian's flannel bag without speaking. The boy trudged away, all of the excitement that should have been in his step missing. Alfred sighed; this wasn't the way he'd wanted the lead up to their destination to end, but what Damian had said had been appalling. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, he glanced over his shoulder to see how the others had taken the outburst.

"...He didn't hurt you, did he, Timmy?" Dick asked.

"No, at least not...well. He didn't hit me that hard. I wasn't expecting it, that's all." Tim crossed his arms and stared into the darkness. "I guess he just didn't appreciate my joke, huh?"

"I think he thought you were insulting his tree, to be honest," Dick explained. "I got the sense that he was really excited about it – not that you can tell, I know – so when he thought you were denigrating it he lashed out. He was getting antsy through the last couple of stops, too, so that probably didn't help. I'm not trying to make excuses for him or anything, don't get me wrong, but...well, you know Dami."

"I imagine that this is partially my fault," Alfred contributed. "I put his tree last because of his penchant for trying to sneak peeks into gifts. I feared he would ruin the main surprise for the rest of you if he had to wait long with his presents in hand, so I pushed him to the end. It appears that I ought to have risked the suspense."

"...I'm sorry, too," Jason breathed.

Tim's eyes narrowed as he craned around Bruce to see the speaker. "What?"

"I said, I'm sorry too."

"...Jay, you didn't do anything," Dick frowned.

"Right. I didn't. I didn't say anything. What he said, though..." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "...I don't want to kill you, okay, Tim? You annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but...I don't want to kill you. Not...not anymore." Now it was he who turned his face away. "I should have said as much when Damian asked. That's all."

For several seconds the only sound that was to be heard in the sleigh was the distant hoot of an owl.

"...Jason," Tim started helplessly. "Um..."

The crunch of boots on snow saved him from having to somehow complete his sentence. Alfred would have sworn that he spied a bit of dampness beneath Damian's eyes as he reclaimed his seat, but he didn't comment on it. Dick apparently spotted the moisture as well, as he pulled the boy into a one-armed hug just before the butler returned his attention to the road ahead. "...Shall we continue, then?" he inquired quietly.

A chorus of subdued yeses answered him, and he drove on.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I know that wasn't exactly the most upbeat way to end a Christmas-themed chapter, but on the plus side this is now a three-part story. We'll wrap things up tomorrow with the grand finale of Alfred's surprise. For today, you can check out a picture of Dick's Christmas tree on my blog (accessible via my profile page). Happy reading!<strong>


	8. New Traditions, Part 3

A somber air hung around the sleigh as Alfred turned it off of the road and onto a narrow service trail. The horses pulled them straight down the middle of the gap, their pace not slackening as the land tilted upward beneath their hooves. Only when the world leveled out and the trees opened up into a natural clearing did the butler direct the animals to stop. "...If I may, sirs," he said, waving his arm to indicate the arrangements he'd made, "I'd like to present your surprise."

No one spoke at first, and without turning around to look he could only assume that his charges were taking everything in. While he waited for someone to speak he glanced over the scene, ensuring one last time that he'd forgotten nothing. The middle of the clearing was marked by a section of packed-down snow, around which a six inch high ice wall had been built. Surrounding this inner circle were six wide tree stumps, each one smoothed out on top and place equidistant from its neighbors. A sharpened willow stick had been thrust into the ground beside every spot. Most important of all was the neatly stacked pile of logs sitting almost out of sight in the shadows beyond the staging area. It looked good, he thought a bit desperately, so why was no one saying anything? "...Sirs?" he ventured.

Dick broke out of his stupor first. "A bonfire?!" he half-queried, half-exclaimed. "Are we having a bonfire, Alfred? Tell me we are."

"That is the plan, yes, Master Dick." Dick's excitement was reassuring, but the continued silence from everyone else was beginning to make him think that he'd erred. "Unless," he went on, finally craning his neck to look backwards, "there is an objection?"

Tim gave a nervous laugh. "...Jesus, Alfred, you kind of freaked me out just now. I saw the circle inside a circle and how everything was symmetrical and I kind of thought you'd brought us out here for a ritual sacrifice or something. No offense."

"It does kind of look like that," Jason grudgingly agreed.

"Pfft. You two spend too much time in the city," Dick opined as he climbed down from his bench. "This is obviously set up for a campfire. If your first thought was ritual sacrifice then we all need to go camping together a lot more often."

"No thanks," Tim declined immediately. "A bonfire's cool, but camping...not my thing."

"I prefer pavement under my feet," Jason said when Dick turned to him.

"...There's a reason we never went camping when you were a kid, chum," Bruce explained when it was his turn. "If I don't have to sleep on the ground, I don't."

"Well fine, then," Dick said without ire. "You all just be party poopers. For tonight, though, let's get that fire going! Did you bring matches, Alfred, or are we doing this the old-fashioned way?"

"I have a lighter, Master Dick. This outing would hardly be a gift if I made you wear yourselves out rubbing sticks together until you produced a spark. And," he went on, "I think the rest of you will find the prospect of a fire almost as exciting as Master Dick seems to once you've opened the items you collected from your trees and see what they hold."

Much to his gratification, the lukewarm reception his plan had received warmed up quickly once the tiny flame from his lighter had spread into a hearty blaze. All but the remnants of the tension that had ridden with them since Damian's tree was gone by the time he'd fed and watered the horses and returned to the fireside. Bruce and Tim had both slipped their boots off and stretched their feet towards the warmth, and were smiling just as if they were sitting before a fireplace at home. Dick was gazing into the light with a contemplative look that Alfred had caught on his face many times before, which he liked to think of as his charge's 'caravan stare'. Jason wore a similar expression, but judging from the fresh charring at the unfinished end of his roasting stick he was searching for a reason to play with the fire rather than trying to draw some sort of wisdom from it.

Damian, on the other hand, was making no effort whatsoever to fool around with the flames. While that in itself was odd, what bothered Alfred more was the fact that he wasn't looking at anything at all. His eyes were stubbornly riveted to the snow between his boots, as if he wanted to see only blankness. The butler frowned, then shook his head. Presents would bring the boy around, surely. "You've all waited long enough, I think," he announced. "You may open your gifts."

That made everyone stir up out of their own thoughts, and in a minute's time the genial chatter that Alfred had hoped to hear tonight was going around. "Ha!" Dick cheered as he slipped a powder-filled plastic bag free of its colorful foil wrapping. "Alfred's best cocoa mix. Score."

"...Graham crackers?" Tim puzzled out loud a second later.

"And chocolate bars," Jason added to the list. A wicked grin sneaked across his lips. "Bruce, tell me you have marshmallows."

The billionaire peeked into one of his gifts. "I do," he verified, "but I'm not sure I believe it. S'mores are at the top of Alfred's no-eat list."

The butler nearly blushed as several suspicious gazes landed on him. "Really now, sirs," he said lightly, trying to act as if he hadn't been waging a cold war on that particular sandwich treat for decades. "It is Christmas, after all. The occasional exception can be made to almost any rule, can it not?"

"You won't hear any argument from me," Dick remarked. "...Hey, look, we even get new thermoses to drink our hot cocoa from!"

"All personalized in their designs, of course," Alfred said, seizing on the change in topic.

"So naturally Dick's is covered in elephants," Tim teased.

"It _is_ covered in elephants," Dick delighted, holding the container up. "Elephants and horses in the same night; how could I possibly complain?"

"You _could_ complain," Jason put in as he examined the punk-rock plaid of his own drink container, "but you wouldn't."

"What would I have to complain about?!"

"Yeah," Tim seconded. "I mean, I'm not an outdoors-guy by any stretch of the imagination, but...this is all pretty damn good. Sorry, Alfred."

"I can hardly chastise you for complimenting my gift, Master Tim. You're forgiven."

"I didn't mean _this_ in particular," Jason replied. "I just meant he could complain in general. The point was that he _wouldn't_, though, because...well, because he's Dick."

"...Oh." Tim looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yeah. You're right. He wouldn't."

"Hey, that's twice in one night you two have agreed on something," Dick observed happily. "New record!"

The pair in question exchanged a startled glance. "Uh..." said Jason.

"Um..." hummed Tim.

"Celebratory s'more time!" Dick announced as he skewered a marshmallow on his stick.

Bruce looked up from where his treat was rapidly browning to make a comment. "I'm surprised it took you this long to get started."

"My tree was first for a reason, remember?" He tapped the end of his own nose. "Patience."

"Uh, Bruce?" Tim broke in stoically. "...Your marshmallow's on fire."

"What? Shit!" The billionaire appeared so shocked at his failure that even Alfred couldn't help but laugh. "...Got any of that patience to spare, chum?" he sighed after his flaming first attempt had been catapulted behind him and into the night.

"Are you asking me to figure out how to transfer a character aspect to you, or are you asking for me to cook your marshmallow?"

"The latter would probably be faster."

"Not to mention more effective," Tim joked.

"Heh. Okay, give me your stick."

Alfred, completely uninterested in ingesting the gooey globs his charges were devouring, focused instead on making cocoa. When the camp kettle he'd brought along in the sleigh was singing he filled each new travel cup carefully to the brim and advised its owner to reserve half of their drink powder for a second round. He came to Damian last, and it was then that he realized the boy lacked the tell-tale dusting of cracker crumbs that his father and brothers wore. Suspecting that he was suffering the same side effect of impatience as Bruce had been, he made a quiet proposal. "Would you like assistance with your cooking, Master Damian?"

"No. I like them burned."

He knew it was a lie despite the absence of the child's usual sarcasm, but he suspected that pressing the issue wouldn't be appreciated. "...Well, if you change your mind," he offered, then moved away. Once he'd regained his seat he made an effort to keep an eye on the youth, but the party was livening up and he was quickly dragged – not unwillingly, if he wanted to be honest with himself – into the fun. It wasn't until Jason left the fire to take a brief walk into the trees that he realized that Damian, too, had vanished. "...Did anyone happen to see where the youngest master went?" he inquired with a frown.

"He's back by the horses," Bruce answered.

"Think he'll insult them, too?" Tim mused out loud.

"Aw, leave him be, Timmy," Dick begged. "He's been good since we got here. Just let him hang out with the horses for a little while. He likes them. Actually...that might be a pretty good thing for him, you know," he directed at Bruce. "A horse. I've seen animals – especially big ones – calm him down in the past, and he could always take a ride and burn off some energy when he's really frustrated."

"We are _not_ getting a horse," Bruce ruled immediately. "None of us have time for that, and with so many masks running around the property these days it's too risky to try and hire help. The odds of them seeing something are just too high."

"...What about a dog, sir?" Alfred suggested. "I agree with you that a horse would be too difficult to manage long-term, but Master Dick is correct in saying that some sort of pet might do Master Damian good. A large dog could do the trick admirably, and it would be far less work."

"It could even sleep in his room," Dick nodded. "Good nightmare control, too...Bruce? A dog?"

The billionaire shuffled his feet and glanced towards the horses. "...I'll think about it," he allowed seriously. "It's not a bad idea, but I want to have time to think about all of the possible cons."

"Like how he'll probably train it to eat me?" Tim said dourly.

"Timmy...c'mon, he wouldn't do that."

"He tried to enlist Jason to help kill me earlier. What makes you think he wouldn't set a dog on me?"

"Because it will be made clear to him from the beginning that any attempts to turn his dog into an attack animal will result in the dog going away and him being off patrol until he's eighteen," Bruce rumbled. "...If I decide to allow him to have a dog at all, that is."

"'If' means yes," Dick half-joked. "Excellent. It'll be nice to have an animal around the house."

Tim still didn't look happy. "I don't like big animals," he sighed. "Never have. Can't we get him a cat or something? Something _manageable_? Something I can punt if it goes for me?"

"What if we get you _both_ medium-sized dogs?" Dick supplied.

"Why, so they can fight every time they meet in the hallway?"

"No, so you'll always have canine backup. Besides, we could get you both pups from the same litter; then there's a good chance they'd like each other from the start. German Shepherds," Dick said, holding up one finger to mark his idea. "We'll get you police dogs. He'll like that, and Shepherds are _smart_, Timmy. There's something in it for both of you."

"Mm...I guess Shepherds aren't _so_ big. I don't know, though..."

"I still haven't agreed to _one_ dog, let alone two," Bruce remarked. "So I wouldn't worry about it too much at this point, Tim."

"But we promise we won't let whatever we get him eat you," Dick swore.

Sensing that their rather important discussion was at a temporary end, Alfred stood up. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll just be a moment." No one questioned his departure, and as a result he didn't have to share his concern. Both Damian and Jason had been gone for some time now, and while he didn't believe that there was anything sinister behind that fact their dual absences were worrisome. The pair had been marking one another ever since their first true civilian encounter in the summer, reminding Alfred of a pair of tomcats who weren't yet sure whether they were going to fight or live side by side peacefully. He was desperately hoping for the latter result, but until they stopped shooting cautious eyeballs back and forth he saw no reason to fool himself into thinking that battle definitely wouldn't be joined.

"...What the hell are you doing out here, short shit?"

He pulled up short of the first horse and listened closely. It seemed that Jason had just come across Damian, and while Alfred wasn't delighted with his elder charge's language he was intrigued by the note of genuine interest that had been lurking behind his question. Not wanting to disturb them unless they made it necessary, he sidled over to stand behind a tree, where he would be out of sight but in earshot.

"What do you care, Todd? You didn't even want to come out on this trip, so go away."

"Maybe I didn't want to at first," Jason confessed, "but now that we're here...it's pretty good. I'm...I'm having some fun. So why aren't you?"

In his hiding spot, Alfred suddenly understood Dick's penchant for doing flips when he heard extraordinarily good news. Had he been twenty years younger and not trying to keep his presence a secret he would have done a few of his own to celebrate Jason's admission of enjoyment.

Damian was less amused, however. "Quit trying to play Grayson and leave me alone," he growled.

"...You know, you accuse people of trying to be Dick a _lot_," Jason remarked. "Any time someone tries to be nice to you you tell them to stop being a poseur and go back to their own business."

"So what?"

"So nothing. It's just something I noticed."

"Well it's not my fault if everyone wants to be like him. It's just annoying."

"...Do _you_ want to be like him?"

"Do _you_?" a challenge was issued right back.

"Mm...there are certain things that I envy about him, sure. His easiness, the way he talks to everyone as if they're his best friend...those are useful traits to have."

"...Not everyone," Damian muttered.

"Huh?"

"I said, not everyone. He doesn't talk to _everyone_ like that." There was a forlorn tone in the boy's voice that Alfred had never heard come from him before. "...Not tonight."

"Wait...is that why you came out here? Because you thought he wasn't talking to you?"

"_No one_ was talking to me, Todd. Pay attention." A beat passed. "He has a hundred million friends, and I only have one – him. I don't know how he does it. I don't know, and I _hate_ not knowing." Another short silence ensued. "...I don't care so much if the others are mad at me about earlier, but him...well. It doesn't matter."

"Yeah, actually, it kind of does," Jason objected. "And I'm not saying that because I'm 'playing Grayson', or whatever. I'm saying that because it's not true. He gave you a hug right after you got back into the sleigh earlier; how can you think he's mad at you?"

"Because he's not talking to me! Just like...everybody else."

"_I'm_ talking to you."

"So? You don't have any reason to be mad about what I said."

"Don't I?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you painted me in a pretty bad light back there. These last few months have been hard enough as it is without you putting me in a position to answer whether or not I want to kill Tim."

"So what, that's why you came out here after me? To be all butt-hurt about the fact that I asked a perfectly likely question?"

"No. I actually didn't come out here to talk to you at all."

"Then why are you wasting your time?"

A heavy sighed sounded. "God, you _are_ mouthy. No wonder Dick's tree was first tonight; he has to have superhuman patience to put up with you half the time."

"…If you're done insulting me, you can go away now," was said frostily.

For a moment Alfred thought that would be the end of things. Jason would huff and walk away, Damian would continue his lonesome pouting, and the situation would be left no better off than it had been. Then, for no apparent reason, Jason laughed. "…Heh. Heheheh."

"…What are you laughing at?" Damian asked, caution weighing down his words.

"You're like me."

"No I'm not. I'm nothing like you."

"Really? You're not smart-mouthed, quick to anger, and maybe more than a little bit jealous?"

"I'm…you don't know me, Todd."

"No, but I know _me_, and the younger me looked an awful lot like you. Listen, kid…it took me a long time to figure out that I really _was_ being some of the not-so-nice things people accused me of. Stubborn, and not in a good way; unforgiving; even cruel. I ignored them, but…they were right." His voice grew wistful. "I'm kind of sorry for my own blindness. I had some good times while I was figuring myself out, don't get me wrong, but…I think I might have missed out on even better ones. You're a smart kid – or at least Dick says you are, and he would know – so maybe you could save yourself a lot of pain by paying attention to what I did wrong and not repeating it. You get me?"

"…It used to hurt him that you weren't around," Damian revealed quietly. "Grayson. Father, too, and Pennyworth, but it was obvious with Grayson. You know…the way he is. He didn't hide the pain."

"I know." Laughter rang out from around the distant fire. "…You don't want to hurt him the same way, Damian. I know you don't."

"No. I don't. But I don't want to _be_ hurt, either."

"Sure. But right now you're only hurting yourself, you know? Standing out here, alone with the horses. Feeling like nobody wants to talk to you. Sure, maybe Tim doesn't want to right now, but that can change. Hell, he never used to want to talk to me – not that I can blame him for that, I didn't want to talk to him either – but according to Dick we agreed with one another twice tonight. Things change, and…well…it's not always for the worse, especially when you try to make them change for the better."

"So what are you saying, Todd? What…what am I supposed to do?"

"For starters? Go back to the fire and try not to be such a pill for the rest of the night."

"…Drake's at the fire. That makes things hard."

"I get that, kid, but…you're a Robin. If there's one thing I know, it's that a good Robin can overcome just about anything – even themselves. Dick was the one who told me that, by the way. And on the note of Robins – as much as it pains me to say this – Tim's not…not a half-bad Robin. Annoying, yes, but…not half-bad."

"Then why is he so damn _aggravating_?"

Jason laughed once more. "Because you're like me, Damian. Because you're like me. Anyway…think about things, huh? Maybe I'll see you back at the circle."

"…Yeah. Maybe."

Alfred had no time to move away before Jason took several steps and came into view. Catching sight of him, the younger man froze. Alfred knew he could probably see the tears standing in his eyes, and hoped that they would be enough to keep him from reacting badly to his presence. Slowly, he lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head. _Not a word, young sir,_ he prayed. _Not a word._

Jason watched him for a second more. Then a small smile broke across his face, and he nodded. Glancing back over his shoulder towards where Damian was still hiding behind the horses, he colored slightly. Then he shrugged, seeming to say that he'd done the best that he could, and continued on his way back to the family.

The butler let a minute pass before he followed, taking a slightly longer route around so as to dispel any notion that he and Jason had been in the same location during their absences. He had just regained the fire when Damian came slinking up. The boy paused at the edge of the light, then shot a secretive look towards Jason, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Dami! There you are!" Dick exclaimed suddenly. "I was about to come looking for you. Here, I made you something." He held out a s'more. "I'm sugared out."

"Um…okay." Accepting the sandwich, Damian sat down atop his stump. The conversation veered away again, and after a moment Alfred saw him send a suspicious frown across the fire.

Jason saw it, too, but he simply shook his head. He hadn't said anything about their talk, the gesture relayed; Dick's present had been purely coincidental. Damian blinked several times. Then he visibly relaxed, gave his eldest brother a grateful smirk, and took a bite of his treat.

Some time later they stamped out the slowly starving flames and piled back into the sleigh. Full of cocoa and graham crackers, none of his charges spoke much as Alfred drove them back to the road. He slowed purposefully as they passed Damian's tree, giving everyone a chance to appreciate it now that the general mood was more positive. Soon afterward he realized that no sound save the jingle of bells was coming from behind him, and he craned around to see what was going on.

"Hmm," a happy noise escaped him as he saw what he'd done. In the back row, Tim had leaned into Bruce's shoulder and was fast asleep. Jason, too, had passed out, and although he wasn't using his surrogate father as a pillow he had allowed the man to place a hand on the seat back just above his head. The billionaire's knees supported Dick, who had curled up with one arm around the slumbering Damian. All in all it was exactly the scene that Alfred had privately dreamt of causing with this Christmas present to his boys.

"…Alfred." It was Bruce, speaking low and slow in the way he always did when he was trying not to wake one or more of his children.

"Yes, sir?" Alfred replied in an equally careful tone.

"Let's do this every year from now on. I know it won't be a surprise next time, but…" He trailed off.

"But there are other compensations?"

The billionaire looked at each of his sons in turn. "…Yeah. That."

"Very well," he agreed easily. It would mean a great deal more work around the holidays, what with the additional decorating and the chopping of wood, but he couldn't bring himself to mind the extra labor. "We'll make it a new tradition, then."

"Right." Yawning, Bruce closed his eyes. "A new tradition…although to be honest, I think it might already be my favorite…"

Alfred watched him doze off, then turned back to the road. _…Mine as well, Master Wayne,_ he thought as a proud, happy smile crept across his face. _Mine as well._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Well, that story went a fair bit longer than I had originally intended, but I think it was worth it. Hopefully you do, too.<strong>

**Tomorrow we'll have a story through a teenage Dick's eyes. Happy reading!**


	9. The Scent of Christmas

For the sixth year in a row, the Symphony smelled like his mother.

The first time he'd noticed it he had stopped cold, his eyes going wide as he inhaled the mélange he had thought he'd lost forever some nine months earlier. Bruce, assuming that he was overwhelmed by the size of the concert hall, which was truly impressive when viewed from the opera boxes, had bent down to say a few kind, quiet words to help him adjust. Although it had been his usual habit to tell the billionaire everything even then, Dick hadn't shared the true reason for his hesitation. Bruce would have understood, of course, but he had feared that the strange magic that had brought his mother back to him for a few short hours would be dispelled if he spoke about it.

Despite his age, he still carried that belief in the pit of his soul. It was absurd to think such a thing, his logical mind protested, but his heart always won out in the end. He knew that what he smelled each season was simply the combination of a hundred different perfumes wafting off of the fragranced ladies in the audience below, but somehow the mixture always equaled his mother. This year was no different than the previous ones had been in that respect, and as he sank into his seat beside Bruce he hoped fervently that that would never change.

They had arrived just in time – they were always just in time, because Alfred knew how much his elder charge hated having to schmooze at this particular event and therefore made a concerted effort to curtail the excess time in their schedule – and the hubbub under his feet was dying away along with the lights. Reminded that tonight was tied to the billionaire's mother more so than to his own, he glanced to his left. Bruce appeared to be riveted to the conductor's progress across the stage, but his wooden applause and the faint lines that had appeared at the corners of his eyes told Dick the truth. The man was in pain, and it was no wonder.

The Gotham Symphony Orchestra had been Martha Wayne's pet project even before her marriage. A proficient player of several instruments, she had received a dedicated music room at the Manor as a wedding gift from her husband. Over the decade of life that remained for her following her trip down the aisle she had made music her philanthropic focus. The exquisite interior of the concert hall in which her son and prodigal grandson sat had been financed largely by her; her name graced two scholarships at the Symphony's feeder school, the Gotham Academy of Fine Arts; and the program she had funded to introduce inner-city children to opera and classical music was the reason that there were several rows of at-risk young people in the audience tonight.

Most beloved of all of the Symphony's programs had been, for her, the Christmas concert. Bruce had explained once that it was the only event on the city's music calendar that he hadn't minded going to as a child, and that this was the reason he had continued to attend the program every year since Martha's death a quarter of a century earlier. He didn't particularly care about the songs themselves – he'd inherited the Wayne ear for music, which was to say none at all – but he knew they had given his mother great joy. She had wanted him to love the orchestra, but he had loved her and that was enough.

When Dick had first heard all of that several years before, he had been struck by the similarity in taste between Martha Wayne and Mary Grayson. His own mother had not, of course, been able to fund great renovations or established an educational legacy for future generations, but that was a difference of circumstance rather than of interest. Mary's flute had been one of the few things she'd carried away from her college dorm when she ran off to join the circus; she had cooked and cleaned her tiny trailer to old recordings of _La Boheme_ and _Carmen_ so often that Dick knew most of the words to this day; and she had once burst into tears upon receiving an early Christmas gift from her husband of much-scrimped-for tickets to one of the London Philharmonic's holiday programs.

He still remembered the evening they had gone out to the show. He had been five, and England had been the last country on the circus' European tour. John, having no interest in seeing the orchestra himself but appreciative of Mary's drive to give their child as rich an education as possible, had secretly saved for almost a year in order to afford two mid-level seats and the Underground fare across the city. Every moment of that performance – his mother's radiance in her dark, flattering dress, the excitement of seeing all of the instruments he had only ever heard be played before, the booms and clashes and sudden upticks in tempo that had poured adrenalin into his young veins – was recalled each year by his attendance at this one. Between that and the sweet smell in the air, he could almost believe that she was sitting right next to him now.

He glanced at Bruce again. Would Martha have leaned forward in her seat as Mary had done, he wondered? It had seemed as if she couldn't possibly be near enough to the action on the stage, and was stretching to close at least some small fraction of the gap. He supposed that Martha might not have felt that same need, since she could have hobnobbed with the musicians as she pleased before or after the show. Still, it was nice to imagine them inhabiting this high viewpoint together, two aficionadas offering one another the same sort of familiar companionship that their sons shared. It wouldn't have mattered that they were from two different worlds, Dick thought determinedly; they would have been united by music, and anything could spring from a mutual passion like that.

The intermission had come while he was busy contemplating his mother and Bruce's, and now it was time to put on his game face. The billionaire had already dressed his expression for the crowds that would be waiting in the atrium, wiping the hurt from his eyes and plastering on a pleasant smile that only those closest to him would know was an utter fake. Dick leaned against him for a second, relaying comfort, and a brief spark came into the man's gaze. "…You ready, chum?"

"Are you?"

"Mm…as ready I ever am for this, I suppose."

"So not at all?"

Bruce looked down at him, then reached out to briefly squeeze his fingers. "Keep that to yourself, kiddo," he whispered. "…Let's go."

Dick imagined that the social interaction that was required by such a public event as this one wouldn't have been nearly so distasteful to his guardian had Martha not been so intimately involved with the Symphony. For all that two and a half decades had passed since her untimely demise, there were still a number of members of the orchestra and its governing board who remembered her vividly. He had never been able to discern why so many of them seemed to think it was necessary to remind Bruce of their acquaintance with his family every time they saw him at the holiday concert, but remind him they did. He knew they were well-meaning for the most part, but the insensitivity of their conversation still made him mad on his mentor's behalf. Wasn't it enough emotional hardship that the man came each season and sat in the box dedicated to his dead mother? Did her old friends really _have_ to circle him like vultures, too?

Bruce had had a great deal of practice at juggling the repetitive comments that accompanied this evening, however, and Dick was still busy marveling at the skill with which he hid his true feelings when the intermission ended. Dropping back into his seat for the second half of the show, he was suddenly exhausted. Only his nose, which tingled as a freshly applied wave of perfume rose once more to form the lingering wake of Mary Grayson, felt truly awake. He wished that the smell could manifest into a figure, something that could come home with them and tuck him in for the night. He wanted her to kneel beside his bed as she had done on so many old December nights, to kneel and sing him to sleep with the Christmas carols that the orchestra below was swinging in and out of with such ease.

He drifted in and out of a light doze, never falling far enough into slumber for anyone peering up at them to be able to tell what was going on. Many people closed their eyes in order to better hear the nuances of grand pieces of music, and he had no qualms about using that as his excuse if anyone brought the subject up later. Besides, he _was_ listening, albeit distantly. Violins and oboes filled his hazy dreams, in which he escorted his silk-and-diamond clad mother up the steps into this very box. She was ecstatic, and the glow of her high mood elevated her beauty to a height above that of all the ladies of Gotham combined. The entire audience craned their necks to see her, and other rich spectators leaned dangerously over the edges of their balconies or peered through their opera glasses to catch a glimpse of the angel in Bruce Wayne's seat. Mary blushed, waved for a moment like the natural show-woman she was, and then turned to him with an ethereal smile. Her gloved hand reached out, and for an instant he felt his mother's touch again.

"…Ready to go, chum?" Bruce's voice interrupted. The fingers on Dick's arm thickened, and Mary's satin caress bled away into a heavier, manlier one. The music was over for another year, and once again it was too soon, too sudden, too unexpected…

"Sure," he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse.

"…Are you okay?"

There was a note of concern in the billionaire's tone, and Dick forced himself to grin in order to dispel it. "Yeah," he managed more normally. "Just…a really good concert, that's all. Better…better than last year's, I think."

"Do you? Good." Bruce examined him for the space of a blink. The slight tilt of his head suggested that the man knew that something of note had just occurred, but he didn't ask and Dick didn't volunteer any information. He couldn't; she had been so close, so _real,_ and if he spoke of it now and it never happened again there would be no forgiving himself. "…Let's go, then. Alfred will be waiting."

"Okay. I'm ready."

He wasn't, but they headed for the door anyway. Just before he stepped out into the pine-scented corridor, Dick turned his head as if to look back. A final whiff of perfume filled his sinuses, and he held his breath as long as he could, savoring it. _Bye, mom,_ he thought as he slowly let the air back out. _…I'll see you here next year._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Did this story make me cry a little while I was writing it? Yes, yes it did. But tomorrow we'll have a fun little romp with a young Dick, so stay tuned!<strong>


	10. Box Day

**Author's Note: That's 'Box Day', not 'Boxing Day', although it would be kind of neat to see Alfred and Bruce switch places on the 26th...**

* * *

><p>"...Go on into the den, sirs, and I'll bring you a small treat before bed," Alfred bade as Bruce and Dick kicked off their boots in the foyer.<p>

"Bed?" Dick queried, his mouth turning down into a frown. "But what about patrol?!"

"No patrol for you tonight, kiddo," Bruce explained. "Not on Christmas Eve."

"Why not, though? I don't have school tomorrow."

_Because it's too risky,_ the billionaire bit back. Taking a nine-year-old out to fight hardened criminals was always a risk, of course, but tonight it was one that he couldn't bear. If something were to happen that resulted in Dick being unable to dive into the truckload of presents that were going to be waiting under the tree for him tomorrow morning, Bruce wouldn't be able to handle it. It was much safer for Batman to perform a solo patrol with the knowledge that the child was safely tucked into his bed to keep him steady.

He could hardly say all of that, though, so he quickly fabricated other excuses. "Because you already almost fell asleep in the car as we were coming back from lights viewing, and because Santa doesn't come to visit children who are up until two in the morning."

"...Santa?" Dick raised one eyebrow. "I think we both know that neither one of us believes in him. Plus, I wasn't really tired in the car; I just wanted to take a little nap so I'd be extra ready for patrol tonight."

Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it again, stymied. If only his boy wasn't quite so damn _smart_...

Alfred saved the day for him. "You are correct about Santa, young sir," he remarked, "but I think you're forgetting the person who puts out your presents in his stead."

"...You?"

"Correct. Me. And I'm afraid that as master of gifts in this house I cannot give you your Christmas Eve box if you insist on going out for patrol."

Dick blinked at them both. "Wait...what's a Christmas Eve box?" His eyes widened. "Is it like a present?"

"Yes," Bruce nodded, sending Alfred a grateful glance. "It's a present you can only open on Christmas Eve, so if you don't do it tonight you never get what's inside." He wasn't sure that was wholly true – in fact, he was fairly certain that the one time he'd acted up so badly just before Christmas that Alfred had revoked his box all of its individual parts had ended up under the tree anyway – but some of the pleasure _would_ be missing if they skipped that tradition tonight.

"Wow...you really get to open a present on Christmas Eve?" Dick's eager face was shining with awe. "That's amazing."

_"__You_ get to open a present on Christmas Eve," the billionaire stressed. "...You've never done anything like that before?"

"Huh-uh. We never really had enough presents to open one on Christmas Eve, you know?"

"Sure," he agreed. "...Should we go wait for Alfred, then?"

"Yes! See you in a minute, Alfred!"

"Very well, Master Dick. You've made a good choice."

A minute later Bruce was seated on the den couch and watching Dick walk around the room on his hands. "Are you excited for tomorrow, chum?" he asked.

"I'm always excited for Christmas. I mean..." He let his feet fall back down to the floor and crossed his legs beneath himself. "...I guess it'll be really different this year," he frowned, "but...I'm still excited." His gaze met Bruce's. "Do you think that's wrong? To be excited even though they...they aren't here?"

"No. I think it's exactly how they'd want you feel." Relief flooded him. He was expecting a few unhappy moments the next day, given the fact that it would be the child's first holiday since his parents' murder, but he was hoping to keep the misery to a minimum. Kids were supposed to be happy on Christmas, and just because he himself had rarely been so after the age of six didn't mean that Dick shouldn't be. "It's going to be a lot bigger than you're used to," he warned.

"...Are people coming over?"

"No. No one comes by on Christmas. Well...no one except Clark." The Kryptonian had the annoying habit of showing up just before Christmas dinner every year and not leaving until patrol time. "But there won't be any parties or anything."

"Oh. Well that's okay, then. I mean...if there are enough presents for us to open one on Christmas Eve, it makes sense that everything else is bigger, too. Anyway," he shrugged, "I'm glad Clark's coming over. I like him, and I don't think he has anyone else to really spend tomorrow with, you know? It's nice that you let him come here."

Bruce started. He had never thought of Clark's annual Christmas intrusion as an attempt to not spend the holiday alone, but now that the suggestion had been voiced it made perfect sense. Who else was he supposed to eat with? Lois, with whom his relationship status seemed to change from day to day? The other members of the League, who all either had their own Christmas traditions or didn't care to have any at all? His adoptive parents, long dead and buried in a Midwestern cemetery? Of course he came here, where there was company, a hearty meal, and a handsome tree to admire with one's feet up. It was probably the closest the other hero ever got to feeling like he was back on his childhood farm.

As he was fumbling through those realizations and feeling like a bit of an ass, Alfred entered. "Here we are, sirs," he announced. A medium-sized box, gaily wrapped and topped with a ribbon, was set down on the couch beside Bruce. "If you would like to get started, I will go and fetch you some cookies." He turned to leave and nearly ran into Dick, who had slipped up beside him in order to get as close as possible to the gift. Alfred chuckled. "...You go on and open it, Master Dick," he bade, brushing his hand momentarily over the child's hair. "I believe you'll like what's inside."

"Okay," Dick agreed. His hands flew to the lid of the box as if they had just been waiting to be told that it was okay to touch. "...You should lift the other side," he looked up to tell Bruce. "Then it's like we're opening it together."

"You bet, chum." He put his fingers into position. "...Ready?"

"Let's count and open it on three."

"Okay. You count, though."

"Okay...onetwothree!"

Bruce laughed as the lid went flying off without any help from him. "So much for counting," he noted.

"I counted. I just counted fast because I couldn't wait anymore once I said we should count. Hey, check it out!" He lifted something out of the container. "We got new pajamas! And they've got reindeer on them!"

"You did get new pajamas," he concurred.

"No, _we_ got new pajamas. Look, here are yours; they're way too big for me."

He tried not to wince as a set of bright red, reindeer-spotted night clothes were passed over. He'd become accustomed as an adult to receiving a Christmas Eve box containing a new bottle of Scotch, a good book, and a fresh pair of warm, comfortable slippers; pajamas had long ago fallen to the wayside. For some reason he had thought that there would be kid things for Dick and adult things for him in this year's offering, but apparently he had been wrong. "...Great," he tried to plaster on a smile.

"Now we'll match! And look, we got a movie – ooh, '_The Polar Express'_, I always wanted to see that – and a book, too. Oh, I know this story," he said as he examined the cover of '_The Night Before Christmas'_. "Mom...mom used to tell it to me. We never actually had the pictures to look at, though; she just told me from her memory." In the space of a blink he was pressed against Bruce's knee. "Would...would you read it to me later?" he requested hopefully. "I know I could read it myself, but...would you? Please?"

There was absolutely no way he could say no to the pleading stare being directed at him. "Sure, kiddo. We'll read it once you're tucked into bed."

"Are we going to watch our movie first?"

"Of course you are, Master Dick," Alfred answered as he came back in bearing a plate of cookies and two tall glasses of milk. Placing his load on the table behind the sofa, he examined his charges. "...But you're not ready, I see. You have yet to change into your pajamas."

"We get to wear them tonight?!"

"Of course. That's half the fun. Hurry, now," he hustled the boy off towards the bathroom down the hall. "It's getting late, and you want to have time for your story." When Dick had gone he turned to Bruce. "...I daresay we have enough bathrooms in this house for you to both change at once, sir."

"Alfred...you can't be serious."

The butler gave him an imperious look. Then his face softened. "There is a bottle of your current favorite single-malt on the desk in your study," he revealed, "and a new mystery and slippers beside your bed. I felt that the box ought to be full of things you two could use together, but I had no intention of neglecting your more advanced tastes."

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

One corner of Alfred's lips twitched upward into a half-smirk. "A bit disappointed, were you?"

"Uh...maybe a little, yes. But you fixed it."

"I should hope so. Fixing things is half my job, after all. At the moment," he added, "I intend to fix some popcorn. If you would like to get ready, Master Wayne...?"

Bruce looked back down at the flannels in his hands. They seemed less garish now that he knew they weren't the sum of his Christmas Eve gifts. Besides, Dick had been excited about the prospect of 'matching', and it wasn't as if anyone outside of the family was going to see him in them. What could changing possibly hurt other than his pride, which would easily recover? "...Okay, Alfred," he gave in. "I'll go get ready."

* * *

><p>Two hours later he was carrying Dick up the stairs when he heard his name being whispered. "Mmph...Bruce?"<p>

"Hmm?"

"...Did I fall asleep?"

"You did."

"Oh no..."

"It's okay. You own the movie now, remember? You can always watch it again when you're more awake."

"Could we watch it tomorrow?"

He winced. It hadn't been a bad story, and he certainly couldn't complain about the warm bundle of boy that had dozed off against his side halfway through, but that didn't mean he wanted to relive the tale twelve or eighteen hours from now. "Why don't we see what you get in the morning?" he suggested. "There might be something you'd rather do instead."

"But if I still want to, can we?"

A sigh escaped him. "...Sure. If that's what you want to do."

"Yay...Bruce?"

"Mm-hmm?" They were at the bedroom door now, and he nudged it open with his foot.

"Can we still read the story?"

"That depends," he answered as he put him down on the mattress. "Do you think you can stay awake for it?"

Dick blinked up at him sleepily. "...Will you be mad if I accidentally fall asleep in the middle again?"

"No, chum. I won't be mad." If he wanted to be honest with himself, the child passing out in short order would please him. He had a patrol to get to, after all, and a new book to start if he could keep his eyes open after that.

"Then could we try? Please? I want to see the pictures that go with the story."

"Okay. Let me..." He glanced around the room. "...Let me go get the book. I left it downstairs."

"I have it, sir," Alfred broke in from the doorway. Entering, he handed it over. "I thought you might want it despite Master Dick's slumberous state."

"Slumberous," Dick murmured from the bed. "That's a good word..."

Bruce, amused by the child's evident drowsiness, shot Alfred an amused glance. The butler winked back. "You'd better hurry up with things, I think," he advised, then departed.

Hurrying wasn't enough. Three pages into the story, Dick was fast asleep. Smiling gently, the billionaire put the book aside and laid his son down. "Sweet dreams, Dicky," he whispered as he tucked him in tightly. "Just sugar plums tonight, okay? No bad things." He bent to drop a kiss onto one smooth temple. "And don't worry," he added just before he pulled away. "We can read it again tomorrow, if you want. I…I don't mind."

Out in the corridor a minute later, he waffled. He needed to go on patrol – it would be a quiet night, but that was no excuse for laziness – but he wanted to sink his toes into the lining of his new slippers and crack open a good mystery. Just as he was fixing to drag himself away from his bedroom door and head for the cave, Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs. "Hey," Bruce greeted quietly.

"I see my timing was spot-on. Excellent." As he drew near it became clear that he was carrying a glass of familiar amber liquid. "...Your Scotch, sir," he said, holding it out.

Bruce's indecision came rushing back. "...I was going to go down to the cave," he said hesitantly.

"Indeed? Oh, dear..." A beat passed. "I thought, Master Wayne, that perhaps this year you might understand why it would be preferable for you to stay in tonight." He paused again. "It is Christmas Eve, after all."

"What..." Then, suddenly, it struck him. For how many years running had he gone out on this night and left Alfred to worry that there would be no one to open the packages under the tree the next day? The butler had never said anything about his concern besides issuing an extra 'take care', but all this time he had been feeling about Bruce's Christmas Eve patrolling as Bruce now felt about Dick's. "…Oh. Ah…"

"You must patrol as you see fit, Master Wayne," Alfred allowed quietly. "…But I do wish that you wouldn't. Not tonight."

How could he, after that? "Alfred…" He searched for a way to assure the older man without straight up capitulating. "…What did you say the title of that new book was?"

"I didn't say, sir, but seeing as how you asked it is 'Eight Minutes to Dawn'."

"'Eight Minutes to Dawn'?" Bruce frowned. "Isn't that the one about the detective who can't go out into the sunlight because of his xeroderma pigmentosum?"

"I believe that is the general synopsis, yes."

"But…that hasn't been released yet."

"No, it hasn't been."

"Then how…?" Alfred was very, very good at procuring the impossible, but so far as Bruce was aware he didn't have any connections in book publishing.

"Ah-ah, Master Wayne; surely you don't want to spoil the Christmas magic?"

"The Christmas…really, Alfred? The Christmas _magic_?"

"Not knowing makes it seem a bit like that, does it not? In any case, try not to talk about the story with anyone; you really aren't supposed to have gotten hold of it this early."

He wanted to argue, wanted to somehow make the butler tell him how he had gotten hold of the highly-anticipated novel, but he held back. He would find out somehow, but he would do it in his own way, and without being told outright. It would be, he thought slyly, like getting two mysteries for the price of one. "…Okay," he agreed finally. "I won't tell anyone I have it."

"Excellent." Alfred pressed the Scotch towards him again, and this time he took it. "…Good night, sir. And thank you."

"Sure. And Alfred?"

He turned back. "Yes, Master Wayne?"

"…Merry Christmas."

The butler smiled warmly. "Merry Christmas to you as well, Bruce. Sweet dreams."


	11. Old Saint Dick

Dick was having difficulty keeping a beaming grin off of his face as he sauntered up to the car he had just pulled over. It was rare that a day came along when he didn't love his job, but this shift was special. Today, he thought giddily as the driver's side window rolled down, he was going to get to play the ultimate good cop.

"Morning, ma'am," he greeted the harried-looking woman behind the wheel. "I'm afraid I need your license, insurance, and registration."

"I swear to god I usually use my turn signal, officer," she sighed as she rifled through her overstuffed wallet. "I'm in such a tizzy this morning that it just slipped my mind entirely when I turned out of that parking lot...could you _please_ just let me go with a warning? It would make such a huge difference to my Christmas, it really would."

"...Been out shopping, it looks like?" he asked, noticing the bags in the backseat.

"For my girls. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to buy for twins. You'd think they'd make it easy and want the same thing, but no, they have to be different colors, or a different style, or a different...ugh. Here it is." She shoved her documents towards him. "At least I managed to find one thing today."

As he examined the license he'd been handed, Dick tried to pull the information he really needed out of the woman. This was his first attempt to make progress on the special mission he'd been granted permission to undertake, and he sensed that it would be an indicator of how the rest of the day was likely to go. He _had_ to get what he wanted out of her. "Let me guess," he smiled, "they want one of those really popular toys that all the stores are low on?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "...Do you have children, officer?"

"No, but I have a little brother," he shared. "I'm familiar with the old 'out of stock, here's a rain check for after the New Year' runaround."

"Oh." She seemed to relax at that, and the nugget of truth that Dick had been searching for fell out of her mouth. "It's those damn 'Modern Pizzazz' dolls. I've found everything else on their lists except those, and I've tried four stores now. It wouldn't be so bad if they wanted Maisie or Anabelle, but of course they were smart and put 'only Trixie' and 'only Madeline'. I guess I'm going to have to pay the babysitter for a few extra hours this weekend and go look for them in Gotham, but...well, you want to be _with_ your family at this time of the year, you know?"

"I know what you mean," he nodded. "Well, let me just run a couple of things really fast, and then we'll get you on your way. I'd hate for you to miss snagging the last Trixie or Madeline at the next store just because of a turn signal."

"Thank you, officer."

"No problem, ma'am." What was going to come next, he thought gleefully as he walked back to his cruiser, would be no problem at all. "...Merry Christmas, dispatch," he spoke into his radio.

"Been waiting to hear that call sign," came back. "Whatcha got for us?"

"I've got an order for two 'Modern Pizzazz' dolls. One needs to be Trixie, the other Madeline."

"...10-4. Will relay. Stand by."

Minutes passed. He ran the woman's information while he waited, and wasn't surprised when she came back clean. Technically he should have checked her out before he'd called in her request, but he'd trusted his gut instinct instead. Her story about spacing turning on her blinker was probably true, he smirked, if she had really visited four stores unsuccessfully before ten o'clock in the morning. If the off-duty officers who had volunteered to play his elves today could manage to succeed where she had failed, then things would be off to a very good start.

"10-20, Santa?"

"Yessss," he hissed before he picked the handset up. Dispatch wouldn't be requesting his location unless someone had found the items he'd called in; now the only question was how quickly they would arrive. "1700 block of Westchester," he reported. "What's the ETA?"

"5 minutes."

Dozens of cars streamed by in the meantime. How many of them, Dick wondered, would he have time to pull over during the two days his public relations quest had been allotted? He wanted to get as many as he could, but the odds were good that they wouldn't all be as fast as this first one was turning out to be. If he could get ten people per shift and some decent media response in the aftermath, he decided, he'd consider the project a success.

Flashing lights rounded a corner several blocks behind him. The second cruiser pulled up behind him, and the driver stepped out. Dick joined her on the shoulder between their vehicles, angling himself so that the woman who was now staring wide-eyed into her rearview mirror couldn't see the exchange that took place. "...Thanks, Meredith," he said, taking the bag she'd brought.

"Don't thank me, Santa," she winked. "Just keep on pulling people over. These two literally came in on a shipment ten minutes before you called. We had to dig through a tractor trailer to get to them."

"Sorry about that."

"Are you kidding? This is _fun_."

"I'll try to get another really good one for you, then," he joked.

"You do that. I'll be waiting." With that she retreated to her car. In a moment she'd merged into traffic and was on her way back to her post at a nearby mega-mall, where she would be waiting to ferry further gifts to him at top speed. Dick watched her go, then approached the sedan he'd pulled over. This was going to be the best part, and he was practically skipping in anticipation. "...All right, ma'am," he began, "here's the deal. I'm just going to give you a warning, like you asked-"

"Oh, thank _god..._"

"-But I need you to do something for me in return."

Her grateful look turned cautious. Dick couldn't blame her for being worried – until a couple of years ago it wouldn't have been unheard of for a member of the Bludhaven Police Department to demand money or other 'favors' in exchange for letting an infraction go – but it still made him sad to see the legacy his predecessors on the force had left. Eager to allay her fear, he lifted a toy-store branded bag into her line of sight. "I need you to give these to your girls and tell them that Santa says Merry Christmas."

For a moment the woman didn't move. Then she began to blink rapidly and bounce her gaze between him and the dolls. "You...you're...are those...?"

"Trixie and Madeline, right?"

She nodded, her expression shell-shocked.

"Well, that's what I told them, so I'm sure that's what they got. Here," he offered her the bag. "Take a look."

When the dolls had been unsheathed, she simply stared at them. "I can't believe this," she murmured. "I...you're _giving_ these to me?"

"Yes, ma'am. They're courtesy of the BPD. The only repayment we ask is that you continue to follow the law and be a good citizen. Teach those girls of yours to do the same things, and we'll be more than even. Sound like a deal?"

"That's...that's the best deal I've been offered in a very long time, officer. I...I can't thank you enough. These will make my babies' Christmas."

"Good," he grinned. "Now, some people from channel 12 are going to come ask you to sign a release and maybe talk to them, okay? It's totally voluntary; you can still keep the presents even if you don't want to be on TV. Just be sure you follow all the rules when you pull out, okay? We want to make sure you get home safe so you can see those bright faces on Christmas morning."

"I will. Oh, god...thank you, officer. Thank you so much. I can't even..."

"Not at all, ma'am. Happy holidays."

Back in his car, Dick's mouth stretched so wide that it was a wonder the top of his head stayed on. He felt so light that it didn't seem possible for him to not be floating above the ground. Clearly, he thought as he went in search of his next 'citation', whoever had made up the basic Santa myth hadn't been writing from experience; if they had, they'd have known that such a generous old man didn't need reindeer to fly.

* * *

><p>The idea had been born out of a patrol of a month earlier. He'd been conducting an arrest when the man in cuffs, who was sober but packing a distribution quantity of methamphetamine, had said something that had stuck with him. "You cops are always taking," he'd accused. "You take me to jail, you take a person's license if they drive drunk, you take away somebody else's future by giving them a rap sheets for petty crimes or by just outright killing them. You used to take bribes, but that was okay because at least then you didn't take so many of the other things. Now you don't do that anymore, though, and we're all poorer because of it. I'm <em>sick<em> of cops taking; I want to see a cop _give_ for once."

That comment had seemed to sum up a great deal for Dick. The entire precinct had just sat through training designed to make them aware that public confidence in the police – not just in Bludhaven, but across the nation – was falling. A few recent scuffles between cops and civilians in other communities had ended badly, leading to public protests and calls for reform. And then there was this guy, the man on the street both literally and metaphorically, telling him that all he ever saw the police do was take. Dick knew how much he and his fellow officers gave in the name of duty, but clearly the people they served didn't, and that was a problem.

He'd fretted over a solution for days. There would have to be media involvement, he knew, so as to maximize the number of citizens who heard about whatever it was he came up with; there would have to be direct, meaningful contact with average men and women, something more unique and memorable than holding a fundraiser or volunteering at a soup kitchen; and there would have to be capital from a third party source, because to fund the project with taxpayer dollars would undermine the entire intent. He knew how to wrangle the first and the last requirement, but the second one eluded him.

On the day after Thanksgiving it had finally come to him. He and Jason had been sprawled out in the den, recovering from a massive lunch of leftovers by watching some old Christmas movie. Santa Claus had featured in it heavily, and as the faces on screen cheered to see the red suit and hat it had occurred to Dick that no one disliked someone who gave out meaningful presents. Maybe, he'd mused, that was his solution. Yes, the police provided the ultra-important gifts of civil order and general protection every day of the year, but those were intangibles, the sort of things that most people quickly sickened of being reminded about. What they needed was a way to give something more solid, something that people could actually hold in their hands and show to their friends and neighbors.

What they needed, he realized, was to play Santa Claus.

It had all come together quickly after that. His sergeant had taken a little convincing, but she was on the streets often enough to recognize the difference a gesture like his proposal would make. The idea had risen quietly through the chain of command from there without any help from Dick, who had been a little surprised to be pulled into a meeting with his precinct's Captain one afternoon. Upon hearing that funding was already in place – Dick would be paying for the whole thing himself, although he didn't share that with anyone – and that the only material contributions the department needed to make were a few squad cars and the use of dispatch, the project had been green lighted. He had been named Santa Claus on his sergeant's suggestion – 'we need a charmer, Captain, and I've never met one better than Grayson' – a local television station had been enlisted to report on the results, and that had been that.

As the first day of giving drew to a close, Dick couldn't have been more pleased. He'd pulled over eighteen vehicles in twelve hours, and had given gifts to the occupants of eleven of them. His only regret was that not even his best efforts had succeeded with the other seven. Four of them had been in an unfriendly hurry, and were uninterested in answering any question not related to their warning citation. The other three had straight up told him to go to hell when he'd tried to inquire about their wishes for this holiday season. As tempting as it had been to write those few actual citations, he had refrained, content to let them leave with a warning but without any presents.

Day two was even better. He only managed to surprise nine vehicles with their requested items, but that was due to his time-eating bust of a drunk driver, not for lack of trying. Fewer people told him to piss off than had the day before, and he allowed himself to think that it was because word was beginning to get around about what happened to those who answered the nice officer's questions.

While the lady who'd needed dolls for her daughters would always be a fond memory for him, his favorite encounter by far was the last one he had. He pulled over a family of seven for a busted taillight, and the five children in the minivan's back rows were all whispering as he walked up to the window. They looked like good kids, and he determined right then and there to get them no matter what it took. "Evening, sir. Can I get your license, insurance, and registration, please?"

"Yeah, sure." The driver pulled the requested items down from his window visor with the heavy finality of a man who had been expecting to be stopped.

"...Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Was it the back light again?"

"Yes it was. You knew it's broken?"

"I know," he slumped. "Somebody slid into my car in a parking lot a few weeks ago and drove off without a note. I've been pulled over for it already," he confessed, "but I don't have the money to fix it yet. We've been trying not to drive at night, but we were the kids' school concert and...well. It's something free we could do together. Or it _was_ something free...shit..."

"It's okay, Deshaun," the woman beside him said quietly. "We'll figure something out."

"I know we will, but this is the _third time_ this week I've been pulled over because of some bas-" Deshaun glanced at the children behind him, "-some jerk who didn't leave a note," he finished. "There's no fairness there, you know?"

"You're right," Dick agreed. "There isn't. Look, let me run some info through the system and we'll see what we can do, okay? Ma'am, if you'll hand me your ID as well, please?"

Back at his car, he checked the parents. Sure enough, the man had two previous stops in the last seven days. The first time he'd been given a warning; the second, a fix-it ticket. That citation would expire the day after Christmas, after which time there would be a $150 fee levied on the driver for non-compliance. Judging from the father's explanation and his wife's quiet despair, this family didn't have that kind of money just laying around. What would they have to go without in order to pay for the repair and the fine, he wondered?

The problem was that he didn't have enough information to act on the behalf of anyone but the driver. He wasn't letting them leave until each one of those kids had a toy and a grin, but unfortunately the only way he could think of to achieve his goal without giving the surprise away entirely required that he cause a moment's fear. He didn't like it, but the end result would be worth the brief angst.

"...Sir, I'm going to need you to step out of the car for a moment."

The father swallowed hard. "I...I haven't done anything wrong," he said.

"He's a good father, sir," his wife argued. "He's a good man."

"I believe you," Dick replied honestly. "...But sir, I need you to step out of the car. It will only take a minute."

"Daddy, what's wrong?!" a voice called from the back.

"Ain't nothing wrong, baby girl. You just keep quiet. Daddy'll be right back." He turned a pleading gaze on Dick. "...Please, sir, don't do this in front of my kids. Please."

"Mr. Davis, I'm not going to do anything," Dick swore. "I just want to talk to you out of earshot of your family. That's all this is." It hurt that he was scaring these innocent people so badly, but he kept telling himself that they would look back on it and laugh when all was said and done. "Now please step out of your vehicle and come with me."

He did as he'd been told. When they reached the rear of the minivan, he spoke again. "Officer, please-"

"Mr. Davis," Dick cut him off, "what do your children want for Christmas?"

The other man's mouth stuttered to a halt. For a second all he could do was gape. "...What's that?"

"What do your children want for Christmas? The biggest wishes they put on their lists; what are they?" He smiled. "I meant what I said; I just want to talk, and I didn't want them to overhear."

"I...you're sure you want to know that?"

"That's all I need. Well, that and what you and your wife want, too."

"Um...well, I guess...trying to remember, here...Tania wanted one of those Modern Pizzazz dolls, you know, like all the girls her age do...and Tyrin, he wanted..."

Davis listed off the deepest desires of his children's hearts while Dick listened and took mental notes. When pressed after that he revealed that his wife desperately needed a new computer with which to work on the classes she was taking online in the hopes of getting a better job. He himself wished he could afford a better mobile phone, as the one he had occasionally stopped working and left him fearing that he would miss a call from the school or the babysitter. Most of all, though, he just wanted his damn taillight to be replaced so that he didn't have to worry about being pulled over any more.

"...Thank you," Dick said when the man seemed to have finished. "Go ahead back to your seat, and just wait there. You're not in any trouble, I promise. I just have to run a couple more things."

"Okay, but...officer?"

"Hmm?"

"What's...what's this all about?"

Dick just smiled. "You'll see. It's a good thing, I promise."

"I...all right. Whatever you say. I don't want any trouble."

"You're not causing any, so don't worry. Just wait."

He was sure it gave the family another scare when not one, not two, but three cruisers converged on their location some twenty minutes later. There wasn't enough room on the shoulder behind him for all of them, so one parked in front of the Davis' vehicle. Putting on the most reassuring grin he possessed, Dick walked back up to the driver's door. "Mr. Davis?"

"...Y-yes, sir?"

"Oh, god," Mrs. Davis moaned, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, god, please..."

"I'm sorry if I've scared you this evening," he apologized. "But I think you'll agree it was worth the fright when you see why I did it. You see," he directed back towards the children, all of whom were watching him with eyes like platters, "I had to make a few phone calls about you all to make sure you're on the 'nice' list."

"...The 'nice' list?" Mr. Davis repeated.

"Right," Dick nodded. "Santa's the only one who has that information, of course, so I had to call him. It takes a little while for a call to go through to the North Pole, so that's what took so long. But the good news is that every single one of you was listed, so Santa gave me special permission to take care of a few things on his behalf."

Now Davis seemed to understand. "You...when we talked...that's why...?"

"Right," he whispered back. "So," he clapped his hands, "without further adieu, my helper elves and I would like to give you each an early present straight from the big man in the sleigh himself."

Two of the other officers appeared on the passenger side of the van. The one by the passenger window handed in a bag containing a phone and a laptop; the other slid open the van's side door and began passing out toys to the children. Finally, Dick took a small, thin piece of plastic from the third cop, who had come up beside him. "And, Mr. Davis, Mrs. Davis," he went on, pulling them momentarily away from their joy, "on behalf of the Bludhaven Police Department...get your taillight fixed." He handed the gift card over. "...What's on there should cover the cost of the repair in full. Just make sure you go before the ticket expires, okay?"

A tearful Mr. Davis reached out through his window to clasp Dick's hand gratefully. "Thank you…thank you so much…" Mrs. Davis shook her head in disbelief and clutched her laptop to her chest, crying as if the device had saved her life. Behind them, all five of their children began to squeal with joy.

It was the greatest sound Dick had ever heard in his life, and from the looks on the faces of his fellow officers it was high up on their lists, too.

* * *

><p>The end of his project also marked the end of his work week, and not even the long drive he took that night from the east end of Bludhaven to beyond the west end of Gotham was enough to wipe the residual smile off of his lips. As he skipped up the front steps of the house to where Alfred was already holding the door open for him, he wondered how best to describe the highlights of his week to his family. Without having been there, would they be able to fully understand the sheer pleasure he'd felt so often over the last two days?<p>

"Good evening, young sir," the butler greeted him. Dick paused; while the older man was always happy to see him, there was an exceptional light of pride in his gaze tonight.

"Hey, Alfred," he replied. "…You look happy. What's up?" There was no way the news of his mission had already reached Gotham; he'd just wrapped it up, after all, and it was only set to be broadcast on a local Bludhaven channel.

""Oh, I'm quite happy this evening, Master Dick. I'm very pleased, indeed. Here, let me take your coat…now, if you'll just follow me into the den, Master Wayne wants to see you right away."

"Uh…okay." He would have gone looking for Bruce straight away even without the butler's pressure, but the urgency of the request was baffling. Maybe, he thought, Jason had done something really great at school, won an award or something. That would just be perfect, to come home and learn that his little brother had an achievement of his own to celebrate…

Jason _was_ grinning when they came upon him in the doorway to the den, but the slightly smirking nature of the expression told Dick that he wasn't smiling for himself. "Well if it isn't Old Saint Dick," he teased.

"…Huh?" It was impossible; how could they know? And yet, what else could Jason's comment mean?

"Don't play dumb, kiddo," Bruce said as he pulled Dick into a tight hug. "…You know what you did. That was a hell of an idea, and I know it was yours, so don't try to argue."

"I…wait, you _do_ know," he boggled. "But _how_? I mean, we just finished up a few hours ago, and it was only going to air locally…"

The billionaire gave one of his rare full laughs. "Locally? I don't know who you've been talking to, chum, but your little Christmas caper is on the national news."

His jaw dropped. "…_National_?"

"They didn't name you or anything," Jason put in. "They just showed a bunch of footage with you in it, and some clips of the people you gave presents to."

He'd known that the station that had agreed to run a story on the project was interviewing some of the recipients, but he'd never imagined that they would have all that footage ready so quickly. For it to have gone out to the national stations on top of that was unbelievable. "I…wow. I didn't think…I mean, I just wanted to make sure _Bludhaven_ knew, you know? The way things have been lately…"

"It was brilliant, Master Dick," Alfred beamed. "Absolutely brilliant. It is such a nice change to hear something positive involving the police on the news."

"I…thanks. I just hope it makes some people realize that cops do more than just take, you know?"

"I don't see how they could fail to see that after the gesture you've made, young sir."

"Tell me," Bruce said, "how much of your own money did you spend on all of this? I know a 'private donor inside the department' paid for the gifts – they said that much in the report we saw – but how much did you end up giving away?"

Dick shrugged. "I don't know. I think it came out to eight or nine grand." Jason gave a low whistle. "It was worth every penny, though."

"…Get me an exactly figure, would you?"

"Bruce…no. I don't want you to pay for it. No offense," he apologized, "but…this was my project. I'll pay for it."

"You're crazy!" Jason exclaimed.

The billionaire just studied him silently for a long moment. "…You're sure?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I'm sure. I already got paid back in smiles and tears; the money doesn't mean anything."

"You _are_ crazy," Jason reiterated.

"No," Bruce corrected him. "…Just generous. Okay, Dick; have it your way. But at least give me consent to talk to Jim Gordon about funding something similar on this side of the river for next year."

"Absolutely!" he agreed. "That's a great idea. I love it."

"Good."

"…Wish I'd been pulled over for a minor infraction," Jason mumbled.

"I rather think that you _don't_, Master Jason," Alfred lectured. "Breaking the law is unacceptable even if you think it will net you a gift."

"Don't worry, Jay," Dick winked. "I'm pretty sure there'll be something under the tree for every 'minor infraction' you committed this year."

"That's probably a roughly accurate count," Bruce sighed. "You're both spoiled."

"Yup," the boys said at the same time. "Spoiled rotten," Dick appended.

"Not rotten," his surrogate father said. An arm landed across Dick's shoulders, and Jason was beckoned forward to take up position on the other side. "…Not rotten. Just spoiled."

"On the note of spoilage," Alfred chimed in, "I've been holding your dinners for some time now. If you would care to attend to them…?"

"Sounds great," Dick cheered. "I'm starving."

"Being Santa is hard work," the butler acknowledged. "Particularly when one does as good a job of it as you seem to have."

"Thanks," he grinned. "…But let's see if I can do even better next year…"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: This story was inspired by an article I read in the news yesterday about a police precinct that did basically this exact thing this year. The way it came about in real life is a bit different than the way I've portrayed it here, but in my opinion the true tale is an even better story because it made a difference in real lives. If you'd like to read the article, please visit my blog and click the link I've provided there.<strong>


	12. Christmas Eve Confessional

Bruce stopped in front of a set of double doors and glanced over his shoulder. Dick, he knew, was fast asleep in his bed, his Christmas Eve dreams thus far mercifully free of terrors. Alfred, who had predicted an early morning now that there was a child in the house once again, had retreated to his own rooms as soon as Batman had returned to the cave. There was therefore absolutely no reason for the billionaire to suspect that someone might see where he was going, but he checked anyway. He required the utmost privacy for what he was about to do, and he refused to take any chances with it.

Satisfied when nothing gave itself away after thirty seconds of waiting, he pulled a key from his pocket. This sliver of brass-plated steel was one of the very few true secrets he had ever been able to keep from Alfred, and as he used it to retract the bolt now he found himself peering down the corridor one last time. The butler wouldn't have cared about his having access to the room that lay beyond the heavy carved-oak portal – it was his house, after all – but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that his annual visits here remained unknown, not just to Alfred but to everyone.

He closed the door behind himself and swiftly turned the latch back to lock. Turning, he checked the room's many windows. All were blocked by heavy damask curtains that left the space in utter darkness, which was exactly the way he liked it. For all that he only ventured into this chamber once a year, he didn't need light in order to navigate its furniture. Nothing in here had changed since he was a child, and if he had it his way nothing ever would.

His gaze stayed centered above the cold fireplace as he switched on a pair of lamps. Two faces emerged from the blackness, both smiling, both sharing some of Bruce's own features. He stopped illuminating the room while his parents were still half-cloaked in shadow; to see them was one thing, but to see them in brightness, as if they were alive once more, was too much.

Logical, science-minded Bruce Wayne did not believe in magic or miracles, but he _did_ believe in the power that this particular painting held over him. He had been twelve years old and determined to get into anything Alfred told him he shouldn't when he'd rediscovered it, locked away in what had once been his mother's favorite sitting room. On that first Christmas Eve he had stared up at those loving expressions, unable to speak, for over half an hour. Then he had thrown himself onto the couch and broken down into a rage of sorrowful tears unlike any he had cried in the more recent half of his life.

After the sobbing had come the confessions. The honest, unabridged depths of his heart had poured from his mouth in exactly the way they always refused to do in any other setting. It had been disturbing to be able to speak out loud all of the things he normally could not, and for twelve months that fright caused him to avoid this place. Come Christmas Eve, though, he'd been pulled back, drawn to the painting like a child to a tree full of presents, and the cycle had repeated itself every year since.

He no longer prefaced his monologue with tears, although those sometimes came in small batches later on. This year, surely, there would be some, and he'd tucked a few tissues in his pocket in preparation. There was news to share this visit like none he had ever brought before, and he couldn't help but wonder if the long-lost people in the portrait would have been pleased to hear it.

"…You have a grandson," he began in a whisper once he'd sat down on the sofa. "He's nine. He's beautiful. He's so smart. I wish...I wish he could have known you. I wish you could have known him." He paused. "I wish you could see what he's done to me. I don't think I know myself anymore, Mother, Father, and…and I'm so glad for that."

Once he'd started talking it was no struggle to continue. It was as if he was a little boy again, capable of saying whatever was in his mind and his heart without any risk of reprisal or judgment from himself or anyone else. "It's been a strange year. A good year, but…strange. There were so many old Christmas things that we used to do that just stopped after – well, _after. _Fortunately Alfred remembers them, because half of them were a surprise to me. I'm not sure if he put all of those things on our calendar this month in the hopes of helping Dick – that's his name, by the way – think less about missing his own parents, or what, but…it was good. It was all very, very good."

He shook his head. "It's funny, but I think I miss you more now that I have Dick. At the same time, though, it doesn't hurt as much. That might sound counter-intuitive, but it's the truth. He has such a healthy way of approaching the deaths of _his_ parents that I can't help but be inspired. He talks about them so easily," he marveled. "I can see that it makes him ache to do it, but it seems to be a good pain. The way you feel after an intense workout, maybe. At least I imagine that's what it must be like. Actually…no," he corrected himself. "…I _know_ it's like that." It was, he realized, the same way he felt early on every Christmas morning, right after he walked out of this very room; invigorated, healthier, refreshed. "It makes him stronger, somehow. It makes him stronger, and he does it so often…" He paused. "…He's nine years old, and he's already the strongest person I have ever met.

"I…I love him."

A harsh, derisive bark of laughter tore from his throat. "I love him, but I can't tell him that. Outside of right now, when I'm talking to you – talking to a painting, yeah, Wayne, that's really sane – I can't say that word anymore. I've tried. I've tried so _hard_, because he says it to me so frequently, but I can't. I just can't make the words come out. It's not fair to him. It's not fair at all. It's not _just_, and you know how I feel about that. I think he knows that I love him right back, that I love him _so much_, but there's something about hearing the words themselves. He gives me this amazing gift every time he says them to me, and I can't…I can't give it back to him.

"He tells me he loves me, and I feel like a failure."

Standing up, he began to pace. He always reached a point of pacing eventually, but it had come earlier than ever this year. "I hate it. I hate _myself_. I loathe that I can't tell him how I feel about him. And part of me hates to say it, but…sometimes I blame you for it." A guilty wince passed over his face. "I'm sorry, but it's how I feel. Obviously I know you didn't want what happened to happen, but if it hadn't…if it hadn't, maybe I could tell him. Maybe I could be the guardian – the…father – that he deserves.

"I know, I know," he waved his hand dismissively, "if things hadn't happened as they did there's every chance in the world that I would never have met him, or at least would never have taken him in, but…it doesn't feel that way. There's something so _right_ about him, about the way we fit together, the way we click. J'onn says we're an immutable pair, and I'm tempted to believe him even though it sounds awfully close to metaphysics.

"The point is, I can't imagine my life without him now that he's in it. He's…he's the first person I've felt that way about since you died. It's liberating and terrifying at the exact same time. I really don't know how to handle it, to be honest. To care about something, especially something so fragile and changeable as a child, so very, very much…" There they were, the tears he'd been anticipating. He whisked them away with a tissue, straightened his shoulders, and continued. "Despite the years I've spent trying to make myself prepared for every possible circumstance in life, I wasn't prepared for this. I wasn't prepared for him."

He circled the couch several times, his hands clasped behind him and his head tilted back on his shoulders to delay any further dampness that might try to escape his eyes. "…He goes out with Batman," he revealed. "I know I'm insane for allowing that, but how could I refuse when I know so intimately the desire he feels to prevent others from experiencing his pain? I think his drive is far less vindictive than mine, and that's good, but it worries me at the same time.

"…It _all_ worries me now, the whole world, and in ways that it never did before. I do everything I can to give him a safe and engaging place to live, both here at the house and outside, but there's so much I can't control. So much…" He dropped into his seat again. "Even with money and the power that comes with it – even with riches, and Batman, and superpowered allies – I'll never be able to leave him the just and carefree world that I want for him. I've known for a very long time now that such a world isn't possible, but somehow that doesn't make me any less angry that I can't figure out how to give it to him. Is it so much to ask that your child be perfectly happy?

"Of course," he went on a bit regretfully, "I guess you'd know all about having a less than perfectly happy child. Not that that's your fault, even if I can't help but sometimes blame you for it, but still. You know. Or you would know, if you were alive. Or…ah, hell, I don't know. Ignore me."

For a while after that he sat silently, frowning into the fireless hearth. When he spoke again his voice had lost its ire and become reflective. "…I bought him everything I could think of for Christmas," he shared. "He didn't have much before he came here, and he still gets a bit overwhelmed sometimes by the things I have and do, but…I don't know how else to tell him how I feel. When he wants a hug I squeeze him until I'm afraid I'll hurt him, and I always let him crawl in with me when he's had a nightmare, but it's not enough. I know spending money on him isn't the answer he wants when he tells me that he loves me, but it's the best one I can give him. I just hope he understands…"

He heaved a sigh, frustrated with himself. If only the faces smiling down on him so benevolently could open their perfectly painted mouths and give him a solution…

Nothing happened, of course, and after a moment he privately acknowledged as much. "Well. Other things happened this year, but you've heard similar tales on my previous visits. Besides, he's a thousand miles above all of them in importance. I can't promise that I won't repeat myself about him for the rest of my life, because I know I'm going to. I know he's always going to be amazing; I know he's always going to make me proud. I know…I know I'm always going to love him. And I know that I can say that out loud, here, and to you. So until I can say it to him, you're going to hear it a lot. I won't apologize for that."

Rising, he turned off one of the lamps and strode to the other. As his thumb caressed the button that would plunge the room back into blackness, he hesitated. "…Merry Christmas," he breathed up at the painting. "Thank you for listening. And you should know…I still love you, too."

He extinguished the light, and in the darkness he found that his fears and his sorrows had been lightened once more by his outpouring. A small smile appeared on his lips as he stepped into the corridor. It was only four in the morning, and he hadn't slept a wink, but he thought he might get Dick up and start Christmas early. He'd be setting a terrible precedent, but maybe, just maybe, the power of the old sitting room would linger long enough for him to squeeze his son in the light of the tree and speak those three painfully simple and impossibly complicated words.

It would be a Christmas experiment, he decided as the lock clicked home and the key slipped back into his pocket. He wasn't sure if it would be a successful one, but if it wasn't…well, if it wasn't then he supposed there was always next year. One thing was for certain – he wasn't going to stop trying to get the result he wanted until a Christmas came when he had nothing left to confess.


	13. The Hunt

"Mmm," Dick said as he stretched. "That was a good Christmas tree."

"It was indeed, young sir," Alfred agreed as he bent to snatch a scrap of wrapping paper from the floor. Straightening, he went on. "Now, if there's nothing either of you require at the moment I'll go and start working on your dinner."

"Wait, Alfred," Bruce requested. "...We're not quite done here yet." He couldn't help but smirk as both the boy and the butler looked at the tree in consternation. "There's one more thing to be opened," he urged when they both turned back to him.

"Is there, sir? I'm afraid I don't see it..."

"Aha!" Dick cried out. Scrambling from his seat, he skipped to the tree, stood on his tiptoes, and pulled out the envelope that had been nestled snugly back amongst the ornaments. "Is this it, Bruce?"

"You found it, chum," he nodded. "What does it say?"

The ten year old glanced down, and a sly grin slipped across his face. "'Robin'," he read. "...But does that mean I have to take this downstairs to open it?"

"No!" Bruce almost yelped. Going downstairs at this juncture would ruin everything he had so laboriously put together. "Not...not downstairs," he went on, ignoring the eyebrows his strange noise had caused to go up. "There's no one here who doesn't know about Robin, so you can open it without going anywhere."

"Oh. Cool." Small fingers slipped beneath the flap and lifted. "...It's a piece of paper," he announced.

"Read it," Bruce pressed.

"Okay...um...'overstuffed am I at parties, and underused elsewise...if heading out's what you desire, I have the supplies." His eyes widened. "Is this a clue? Do I get to search for my present?!"

"Oh, well done, Master Wayne," Alfred complimented, looking almost as excited as Dick. "What a marvelous idea."

"Well, it seemed to make sense that Robin might have to jump through a few mental hoops to get his present." Bruce shrugged, but delight over how well his idea seemed to be going over welled up in his stomach. "Anyway, kiddo, what do you think? Any idea where you're supposed to go?"

"Let's see..." Staring at the clue, Dick walked back to his seat beside the billionaire and took a sip of cocoa. "'If heading out's what you desire'...that makes it sound like it's a door, or near a door. We're not counting windows and vents as ways out, are we? Even though they technically could be?"

"I don't know," Bruce feigned innocence. "Are windows and vents 'overused at parties and underused elsewise'?"

"Weeell...sort of. The fancy ladies like to look at themselves in the windows a lot, at least. But they don't use them to go outside, so I guess that doesn't work. 'I have the supplies'..." He frowned, thinking hard. "Supplies...supplies for going outside. The coat closet!" Leaping to his feet once more, he finished reasoning out his conclusion. "The front closet is always packed full of people's furs and stuff when they come for parties, but Alfred gets upset with us the rest of the time because we don't like to put our shoes away when we come in," he babbled, his tongue tripping over itself in its eagerness. "And if you want to go outside, you have to stop by there for your shoes and your jackets and stuff. Unless you want to go out barefoot, that is."

"...Is that your final answer?"

"Yes!"

"Then let's go see if you're right."

The trio made their way to the foyer at a reasonable pace. As soon as the closet came into view, though, Dick could no longer contain himself. He sped across the room, slid the last few feet to his destination, and threw the door open. "Eep!" a squeak of joy escaped him, and he vanished inside.

"...Sir," Alfred inquired before they got too close, "is this scavenger hunt leading to the item I've been procuring parts for over the past year?"

"Yes. I meant to tell you about my plan before, but I wasn't sure everything would be ready until last night." He had, in fact, stayed in from patrol specifically to put the finishing touches on the gift waiting beneath their feet. "But at least you know what we're leading up to."

"Indeed. I must say again, Master Wayne, well done. He seems to be ecstatic about this whole thing."

"I wish it was longer," Bruce sighed, "but there's only so much gear he needs."

"Don't feel bad for having equipped him well from the beginning, sir. That's hardly shameful."

"True." They had reached the closet now, and both peeked through the doorway. "...Well, chum? Were you right?"

"Yes!" Dick turned around wearing a set of supple motorcycle leathers in Robin's colors, a pair of equally flamboyant riding gloves, and a giant smile. "I love it. They're so soft..." His hands ran across the front pockets as he stroked the fine hide, and something crackled. "...Oh, hey! Is that another clue?!"

"I don't know. Maybe you should read it and find out," Bruce teased.

Dick batted his eyelashes. "You _do_ know," he accused good-naturedly. "Let's see...'rain may fall and hail may bounce, but I help you stay unperturbed. When I need to be repaired, some workers may be disturbed.' Huh?" He wrinkled his nose. "That's a weird one. Let's see...it's got to be something around here, like in the house, because you wouldn't want me to go out in public in Robin clothes" -he stroked one sleeve again- "and you wouldn't make me take them off right away because you're not mean like that..."

Beside Bruce, Alfred coughed to cover a snort of laughter.

"...So...rain and hail, and repairs. That stuff falls on the grass, but I don't know why anyone would be 'disturbed' by a job doing landscaping. Unless they had allergies or something, but they they should probably find something different to do. Hmm...the only other thing I can think of that gets a lot of rain or hail on it is the roof, and I guess it _would_ be perturbing if we were getting hit in the head with that stuff instead. Plus, some people are afraid of heights, so there are those scared workers. But...did you really put a present on the _roof_, Bruce?"

"In the interest of not having you crawling around on top of the house all day looking for your present," the billionaire said, "I'll tell you. Yes, your next present is on the roof-"

"Good heavens, Master Wayne, I do hope you were careful..."

"-but I cheated a little with your clue. It's on the flat portion that sticks out next to the telescope room," he assured Alfred, "not up on the apex or anywhere like that."

"So," Dick pressed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "can we go get it? Please?"

Bruce smiled at the glowing face that was using every muscle it possessed to beg him to say yes. "You bet, chum. Lead the way."

"Oh, man," the boy breathed once they'd climbed to the large room on the back side of the third floor. A gleaming helmet sat waiting for him just outside, its rounded dome reflecting the morning light provocatively. "I'm so excited. Can I reach out and get it? Please?"

A quick glance out the window told Bruce that the gift was close enough for that. "You can," he allowed, "but your feet have to stay on the floor." The roof dropped away precipitously only six inches past the object they'd come to retrieve, and while he knew that his boy was a pro at rooftops his boy was also a boy. A moment of simple, unthinking joy could easily turn into tragedy, and that was intolerable. "Deal?"

"Sure!" Dick stood on his tiptoes and stretched, but his fingers slipped along polished carbon fiber time and again without getting any grip. "...It's too far away," he reported, his expression disappointed. "I'm not tall enough to get it."

Bruce could have just grabbed the helmet himself and handed it to its new owner, but he sensed that half the fun would be gone if he did. Instead he lifted Dick without warning and set his knees on the windowsill. "There," he said, keeping his arm wrapped firmly around his waist. "Now you can reach."

"...You know I'm not going to fall, right?"

His grip tightened. "Yeah. I _do_ know that. Now get your present, kiddo. You've still got one more clue to solve."

"Yay!" In a moment the helmet had been clawed into the room and proclaimed 'totally awesome'. The third hint was fished out of the inside lining, and Dick read it aloud. "'I stand by, a silent guardian, as guests move to the ball. My hands may look quite empty, but they hold the greatest secret of all.'" He looked up, smiling. "That one's easy. It's the clock."

"Right," Bruce nodded. "You want to lead again?"

"Yes! Let's go!"

Once they had traversed the length of the house again and stopped before the clock, Dick hesitated. "...Why's there a black cloth hanging from the hands?"

"Because I don't want you to see this last part until the right moment," Bruce answered, untangling the blindfold from its perch. "Take off your helmet and turn around."

"How am I going to go down the stairs? It _is_ downstairs, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'll carry you. Sound good?"

"Yup!" He spun around. "Ready!"

Bruce chuckled. "...Ah, Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Helmet."

"Oh!" Pulling the apparatus off, he handed it to Alfred. "Okay. _Now_ I'm ready."

"Good." He tied a firm knot at the back of the boy's head, then swept him up. They passed through the doorway behind the clock and began to descend. Small giggles began to sound when they were halfway down. "What are you laughing at?"

"I'm just so _excited_!"

Smiling softly, Bruce held him a bit closer. "Me, too, chum. Just wait another minute, and you'll have your surprise."

"I can't wait!"

"You can wait. We're almost there..."

They reached the bottom. "Are we there?!"

"Almost. Hold on." He had initially planned to just set the child down, circle around behind the motorcycle that was glimmering in the low light of the cave, and wait there to see Dick's face when he was given permission to take off his blindfold. Struck by what seemed like an even better touch, he settled his load down on the seat and then stepped back. "...Okay, Dicky," he breathed. "You can look."

The black cloth was whipped off so fast that it went flying into the shadows. For a moment there was nothing but silence as the boy boggled at the array of dials and knobs on the dash in front of him. His fingers, still clad in their new gloves, slipped along the blackened handlebars to the grips. "...Bruce?" he asked tremulously.

"Hmm?" So entranced was he by the sight before him that all Bruce could manage was that hum of acknowledgment. It was a perfect combination, his baby and this bike, even more perfect than he'd imagined on the dozens of nights he'd spent laboring to make it a reality. He would miss having his partner in the car with him every night they went out together, but this moment, this memory, was enough to make the loneliness worth it.

"Is...is it really mine?"

"It is, kiddo. All yours. All Robin's." He paused. "I built it just for you."

"You _did?"_

"I did."

He wasn't sure how Dick managed to launch himself into a flying hug without knocking over the bike, but suddenly there was sixty pounds of acrobat in his arms. His son snuggled into him and gave a short whisper.

"...You're the best, dad. I love you. Merry Christmas."

Those nine words, Bruce decided as he closed his eyes and squeezed the boy close, were by far the best gift he'd received that day.


	14. An End and A Beginning

Tim Drake had in many ways never been an ordinary child. Looking back on his youth as an adult he often found himself wondering if that was part of why his parents had always been somewhat distant. They had loved him, he knew, but the way they spoke to him and their reactions to his responses had all suggested that they were a pair of good-intentioned people who operated on a different level than their offspring. It wasn't anyone's fault; it was just how things were.

Lottie, on the other hand, had understood him from the start. She was an old woman hired in a moment of desperation by his frantic mother, who was set to leave on a couples' cruise to Barbados mere days after his fourth caretaker quit, but she fit him far better than any of the nannies who had gone through extensive interview and meet-and-greets ever had.

Satisfied enough with their last-minute choice, his parents had left for the docks. Six-year-old Tim, meanwhile, had gone to the Christmas tree, crawled deep beneath its branches, and cried. It had been explained to him that the holiday wasn't until after his mother and father got back and that he would be bored on the ship with them, but he didn't care. He wanted to be with them, but they didn't seem to want to be with him; _that_ was what mattered.

He fully expected to be dragged out of his hiding space and given a gentle lecture on running away from his problems once Lottie found him. When her worn but polished shoes appeared at the edge of the conifer's circumference, he braced himself. But lecturing wasn't Lottie's game, as it turned out, and neither was yanking small children away from spaces they were comfortable in. Instead she bent down, searched him out, and smiled. Without speaking a word she sat her popping and creaking joints down on the floor. A second later a rainbow of colored pencils rolled onto the floor. After that came a small stack of paper, and then the unmistakable sounds of coloring.

In his cocoon, Tim frowned. He'd seen adults color idly for a few minutes when they thought that it was what he wanted them to do, but Lottie appeared to be fully engaged in her task. Minutes ticked by, and soon he couldn't stand it anymore; he simply had to know what kind of a picture a grown up could possibly find so interesting.

"Ooh," he cooed once he could see what was going on. His new caretaker was carefully filling in a bright star-burst pattern, and judging from the number of spaces that were already filled she had started on it long before he had crawled beneath the tree. If only he had such interesting designs to color, he thought, he would pickup his pencils a lot more frequently.

"Well hello, Timothy," Lottie addressed him without looking up from her task. "...Would you care to join me?"

"Um...I could just watch you," he suggested, crossing his legs beneath himself. "I don't mind watching."

"Are you sure? It's much more fun if we do it together."

"I...I don't have any pictures I want to color," he confessed.

"No?" Her face turned down in a frown. "Why not? I saw your coloring books in your playroom; there's nothing in one of those?"

"Huh-uh. I don't really care about coloring in animals and scenes from history and stuff like that." His gaze slipped to the pile of pages stacked nearby. They were made of fine, thick paper that reminded him of the blank stuff his mother practiced her terrible watercolors on. Lottie's papers weren't empty, however; instead they bore complex geometries that made his heart speed up. "...Superheroes are okay to color, but I ran out of those."

"Hmm." A clever, knowing look came into her gaze. "Well, would you like to look through my coloring pages and see if you like one of them?"

His jaw dropped. "I...I can?" he whispered. "I mean...mom has paper that looks like this, but I'm not allowed to touch it."

"These aren't your mother's papers," Lottie said firmly. "These are _my_ papers, and I would be very happy if you wanted to color one."

"Okay," he nodded eagerly. A smile started across his tear-stained face. "I'll pick one. Thank...thank you."

"Oh, don't worry about thanking me. What's a pretty design between friends?"

Tim and Lottie spent hours upon hours coloring during his parents' absence. After that first afternoon on the floor they moved up to the playroom, where a table and chairs made thing less uncomfortable for the old woman. They talked while they colored, discussing what Tim wanted for Christmas (a fingerprinting set, his own computer, and a model train), how he liked school (not much, but at least his teacher wanted to skip him a grade in math next year), and things of that nature.

Lottie shared a little of her past, as well, explaining that she had once been the child of rich parents just like Tim's. They had gone on many long, distant trips, often leaving their children at home with the help. Her sisters had envied their mother's jet-setting, and had striven to have that kind of life for themselves as adults. But Lottie, for all that she liked to travel a great deal, remembered the long, lonely afternoons she'd spent under the watchful eye of a disinterested governess. No little boy or girl should have to feel like she had on some days, when it seemed like she was nothing but a nuisance who could only please the adults in her life if she grew up a bit quicker. It was for that reason that she had studied education and child psychology in college. As soon as she graduated she began putting her name out as an au pair for the youngsters of Gotham's upper crust, and many decades later here she was with him.

By the time he heard that story Tim already liked Lottie a great deal. Finding out that she was so much like him, and that she had once felt the same way he did sometimes, only drew him closer to her. When Christmas came a few weeks after their introduction to one another, he received the train, laptop, science kits, and myriad other items that his mother had sent the staff out to buy off of his list; but it was his nanny's gift of new colored pencils and his very own set of coloring designs that he loved above everything else under the tree.

She made it a special point to give him the same gift every Christmas and birthday, and his joy never slackened. Coloring calmed him after bad days at school and gave him something to do while he tried to work through a tough brainteaser or solve the latest mystery he was reading. In later years he was careful not to mention his habit to other children, who had largely moved past such activities and weren't above teasing him for it. It wasn't until he overheard his father telling Lottie that she needed to give his son more 'adult' gifts, however, that he felt a need to truly hide his hobby.

Lottie, being who she was, didn't stop giving him what he truly wanted. Now there was always an 'adult' gift from her beneath the tree or on the gifts table, but later on when they were alone in his playroom his real present would come out. In a way Tim preferred it that way; it was fun to have a secret from his parents. His time with Lottie was quickly coming to an end, though, and shortly after his fourteenth birthday she was let go. He was old enough and responsible enough now, his mother explained, to look after himself when he was home. Besides, Lottie was ready to retire; surely he didn't want to keep her working longer than she really desired to?

The old woman did a much better job of soothing his upset than his mother did. She _was_ going to retire, although she professed that she would gladly come back to him if she was still able when he had children of his own who needed looked after. In the meantime she was going to finally go to all of the places she'd ever wanted to. She would send him pictures, and maybe the occasional trinket. Most importantly, she swore, taking his hands in her own, she would always send him his coloring pages and fresh pencils at Christmas and his birthday.

She hadn't lied. As the years went on his packages came from more and more exotic places – Quito, Kathmandu, Alice Springs – but they always came. When he found that he was spending more time at Wayne Manor than at home, he made sure to put in a change of address form so that Lottie's packages would reach him without falling into his parents' hands. He didn't think they would keep his mail from him, but he could imagine the lecture he would receive if they knew he was still coloring with as much interest and joy as ever. He should be making his own designs and selling them, his father would press; he should go to architectural school if he was so interested in straight lines and repetitive patterns, his mother would urge. It would be too much for him to bear politely, so he took steps to avoid the confrontation all together.

And then, almost a decade after the old woman had been dismissed, his birthday passed without any word from her. He worried, but with no way to contact her all he could do was write it off. She was practically ancient by now; maybe she'd just lost track of the date and had posted his gift at the last minute. Maybe she was in the Amazon or somewhere equally as remote, and hadn't been able to find any pages to send him. It was okay; there was bound to be something at Christmas.

Sure enough, Alfred called him downstairs a few days before the 25th. A large box sat in the foyer, its brown parcel paper wrinkled and stained as if it had been on a long journey. The return address read Bangalore, and had been sent from the Estate of Miss Lottie Carver.

He fell slowly to his knees before the package and ran his hand over those deafening words. 'The Estate of Miss Lottie Carver'. It didn't leave much room for him to question what had happened; his old friend was gone, lost forever, and that was that. This was, he mused, the last Christmas present he would ever receive from her.

Grateful that Alfred had returned to the kitchen, Tim pulled the plain wrappings away. A letter presented itself, which he read. It had been Lottie's last wish, her lawyer informed him, that everything in this box be sent to him. This represented the total of his inheritance from her, and...

He set the letter aside. Maybe he would read the rest later; maybe not. It was far more important that he open the box and see what was inside. The flaps lifted up and were folded back, and Tim's eyes filled with tears of joy. Sheaf upon sheaf of uncolored designs were stacked on top of one another, each set shrink-wrapped to keep it from being damaged. Swirls and squares and circles and stars presented themselves as he sifted through the treasure trove, unable to believe how much Lottie had collected in her lifetime. At the bottom of the box was a heavy leather case which, when opened, disclosed an array of colors like none he had ever seen before. Some were brand new, others were half-used; all had been Lottie's.

She was gone, but here she was, come back to him for one last Christmas.

Without realizing what he was doing, he piled everything back into its box and carried it down the hall. He needed privacy and a table, but his bedroom didn't feel like the right venue for what he was going to do. The game room, located away from the main areas of the house and sporting plenty of flat surfaces, would work much better.

Once there, he picked a pattern at random and began to fill it in. As he worked he thought of Lottie, spending the last decade of her life in pursuits she had dreamed of her entire life. Rainforests, deserts, great cities...he could picture her in all of them, always wearing the same omniscient smile that he'd been introduced to when he was six. He decided that her last gift, with its foreign postmark and globetrotting contents, was an indicator that she had lived a good life. Her inclusion of him in her will, he smiled sadly, was a sign that he had been an important part of that life well lived.

"What are you _doing?"_ a snarky question pulled him out of his reveries.

"...Coloring," he answered without looking away from the page. Heat tried to rise into his cheeks, but he willed it down. For the first time in many years, he refused to feel ashamed about his activity. It didn't matter what his parents had thought of an adult coloring, and it didn't matter what Damian thought, either. He was enjoying himself without hurting others, and that should have been good enough for anyone.

To his surprise, though, the boy didn't laugh. When he glanced up, certain that he was about to be the victim of some cruel prank, he found Damian standing at the other end of the table and surveying the piles of paper. "Where did you get all of these?"

"They...they were an early Christmas present," he explained. "From an old friend."

A silent minute went by as he shaded in a triangle. Finally Damian turned on his heel and began to walk towards the door. His pace was slower than usual, though, and Tim was suddenly hit with a strange urge. Growing up with distant parents who loved you was bad enough; what, he wondered, must it have been like to grow up with a parent who literally saw you as nothing more than a tool for revenge? "...Hey, Damian?"

He stopped instantly. "What?"

"...Do you want to do one? I have enough here for...well, for a lifetime, I guess." He pushed the heavy leather case forward. "You can use my pencils, if you want, so long as you sharpen any you make flat."

Damian took one step back towards the table, watching him cautiously as he did. "...This isn't a trick, is it?" he queried.

"Why would it be? I was coloring for an hour before you came in."

"Yeah, but...oh, whatever. I don't care." With that he closed the gap and sat down in a chair. "...You don't care which one I do?"

"No. I haven't even looked at most of them."

A quarter hour passed. "We should get Grayson in on this."

"He's not home yet."

"I know. I meant when he gets home."

"Yeah...Bruce would probably have a coronary if he walked in and saw all three of us coloring, though."

"What does he care? At least we aren't fighting."

Tim looked up and caught Damian's eye. "Heh. You're right. We're not." He glanced down at the boy's project, then extended the pencil he'd just finished using. "Here. You should use this red next to that yellow you just put down."

"Don't tell me how to color my picture, Drake, or this won't stay peaceful for long." He studied his work for a moment, then grudgingly reached out and took the pencil. "...Even if you're right," he mumbled, then bent back over his design.

The almost-companionable silence drew out once more, and Tim gave wordless thanks to Lottie. This was the last Christmas he would have a gift from her, but maybe, just maybe, it would be the first Christmas that he got one from Damian.


	15. Learning Christmas, Part 1

Damian had only been living in his father's house for a few months, but he already knew that Grayson was the most tolerable of everyone he now had to reside with. The man's sappiness was disgusting, but no one who had seen him fight could reasonably accuse him of having let sentiment make him soft. He was a teddy bear with stuffing made of steel, and for some reason Damian couldn't help but respect that.

Knowing that, he should have expected the reaction that Dick had when he first heard that Damian had never experienced Christmas. "_Never_?!" he exclaimed.

"...No. Why would I have?"

"I don't know, I just...it's not like your mom follows some other religion or anything like that. I mean, she _knows_ about Christmas."

"It's Talia," Bruce rumbled from the other side of the Thanksgiving dinner-laden table. "Just because she knows something doesn't mean she's going to share it with anyone else."

"Dick has a point, though," Tim pitched in. "She sent him out into the world an expert in a dozen things, but she left out a cornerstone of Western culture? That doesn't make sense."

"I _know_ about Christmas, Drake," Damian huffed. "The same as I _knew_ about Thanksgiving before today."

"You've just never experienced one," Bruce filled in for him.

"...Right."

Dick clapped his hands together. "Well that's an easy fix!" he announced, his eyes shining. "We'll just have to do a ton of stuff this year to make up for lost time."

"Or we could not," Damian griped.

"Aw, c'mon, Dami; don't you want Santa to bring you a ton of presents? People without Christmas spirit don't get anything."

"Santa, Grayson? Did Pennyworth hit you in the head with a platter when he changed the courses?"

"Okay, okay, you're too old for Santa. I had to try. But the stuff I'm thinking of for real is _fun._"

"Besides," Bruce informed him, "Alfred happens to like Christmas, and he has a big say in what makes it under the tree. If he thinks you don't want to participate in other seasonal activities he might assume that you don't want to participate in the holiday at all."

Damian eyeballed his father, trying to determine whether or not he was being led on. After a moment he decided that it probably wasn't an exaggeration; Pennyworth could be almost as squishy as Grayson, albeit that he tended to keep his expression of such emotions restrained. If there was anything about Christmas that he was truly interested in it was the presents aspect, and consequently the threat that had been made was a powerful one. "...Ugh, fine," he muttered finally, then stuffed more turkey into his mouth in effort to chew over Dick's hoot of joy.

Thus it was that he found himself standing at the top of a long, snow-covered hill one evening a week later. "You ready to do some sledding, Dami?" Grayson grinned beside him.

"...This is ridiculous." Even if sliding down turned out to be amusing, they would have to trudge all the way back to the top in order to do it again. "We're just going to get cold and covered in snow for no reason."

"You won't get cold," Dick promised. "And fun is an _excellent_ reason to get snow-covered."

"And yet I notice you let Drake out of this 'fun' little outing."

"Timmy wanted to come, but he has finals to study for. You don't, and you've never been sledding. So...on the count of three?"

"If we have to." Maybe he could just do it once, then get into the warm, running car they'd driven to the base of the slope in and take a nap while Grayson gave himself hypothermia. He wasn't particularly tired, but anything had to be better than this.

"Okay. One, two, three!"

Dick ran a few steps, threw himself forward onto his long plastic sled, and took off down the hill. Damian watched him go, then let out a heavy sigh. He couldn't stay up here all night, he grimaced, and sliding was the fastest way to get back to civilization. Sitting down atop his conveyance, he muttered a half-formed thought about useless pursuits and pushed off.

It was boring until he reached the trees. Blasting past where Grayson had tumbled off into a drift, Damian continued into the woods. Trunks rose out of nowhere, giving him little time to dodge. He managed the feat only by wrenching his body back and forth and keeping his eyes narrowed at the darkness ahead of him. It was a challenge, and by the time he finally ran out of momentum and coasted to a stop the beginnings of a grin had appeared on his face.

"Dami?! You okay?!" a call came from somewhere behind him.

He rolled his eyes at the overburden of care in the question. "I'm _fine_!"

"…There you are," Dick said when he appeared from the trees a minute later. "Do you want some pointers on braking? We should have gone over that first. That could have been bad just now. Here, you just-"

"No," he stopped him. "I _like_ going into the trees."

"...It's kind of dangerous. You're not wearing a helmet or anything."

Standing up, Damian crossed his arms. "Look, Grayson, we're throwing ourselves down a hill on a piece of slippery plastic. This isn't exactly a safe activity to begin with. If you're going to suck what little fun there is out of it, then I'm done."

Dick frowned at him for a long moment, then gave in. "…Okay, little brother. You do it your way. So long you're having fun. Just…just be careful, okay? No cracked skulls at Christmas."

"I don't particularly want one of those either, you know."

"Good. Then we're on the same page." The smile that Damian had come to accept as being Dick's standard expression reappeared. "Want to walk back up together?"

He considered the offer. The idea of coming back through the forest at high speed was alluring enough to make him drag himself to the top at least once more, and if he went with Grayson maybe the trudge wouldn't seem so long. "Fine," he agreed. "But you're going first."

"Using me to break trail for you?" A smirk appeared on the man's face. "Clever bird."

"…You're not mad?" The others would have been put out, he was certain. But then Grayson wasn't like them...

"Nah. So long as you're having fun tonight, Dami, I don't mind breaking trail." He jerked his head towards the top of the hill. "C'mon. We've got sledding to do."

Dick turned and began to walk away. Damian stared after him until he was almost out of sight, busy musing on the fact that throwing oneself down a mountain wasn't turning out to be so bad after all. Maybe he would try Grayson's launch method on this next go-around; if nothing else it might ramp up the difficulty of dodging the trees, and that could only make things more interesting.

Provided that all of the Christmas activities Dick claimed to have planned were like this, he thought as he hustled to catch up, he might end up not hating the holiday as much as he'd expected to...

* * *

><p>He survived sledding despite several close calls with frozen trunks. On more than one occasion during the following week he found himself drifting off in school, replaying tricky tree encounters in his mind and trying to determine how he could more successfully navigate them next time. As little as he wanted to admit it, he had ended up enjoying himself out in the cold with no one but Grayson. The prospect of a 'next time' should have made him curl his lip in disgust, but he couldn't bring himself to hope that it never happened again.<p>

That feeling was driven home when he heard what was planned for the next weekend. He'd been forced to participate in several annoying events in the evenings since they'd gone sledding – decorating the tree, cutting out sugar cookies in various vexing shapes, watching some absurd old film about angels and suicide and the spirit of giving – but what Grayson came up with next almost sickened him. "A Christmas market?" he scoffed, trying not to wince. "_Why_? Going to the regular market is bad enough."

"The Christmas market is _fun_, Dami," Dick insisted. "Even Bruce thinks so. Don't you, Bruce?"

The billionaire looked up from his newspaper long enough to concur. "I'm going with you, so there's that."

"The crowds are terrible," Tim opined, "but it's worth it. I wouldn't want to go to it every day or anything, but once a year is okay."

"Can't we just go sledding again instead?" Damian mumbled.

"Aw!" Dick beamed. "You _did_ have fun last weekend! I knew it!"

"I did _not,_" he lied. "…It just sounds better than going to some stupid market."

"What if I buy you a big ginger cookie?" Grayson tempted.

"We have those in the kitchen."

"…A gingerbread house?"

"Only if it's big enough for me to actually live in."

"How about nothing, and you go anyway because we're _all_ going?" Bruce stepped in.

"So what, it's non-negotiable?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Ugh..."

And so come Saturday he was forced to pile into an SUV with the others in order to make the drive into the heart of Gotham. There were carols on the radio the entire way, none of them known to him but all of them tweaking the nerve he kept tuned as an alarm against kitsch. As if that wasn't bad enough, the market was set outdoors, a fact that he hadn't been apprised of. "It's _outside_?!" he protested.

"That's the best part!" Dick nudged him with an elbow. "C'mon, I'll buy you a hot chocolate if you promise to just give it a try."

"Keep me in hot chocolate the whole time we're here, and I'll comply," he counter-offered.

"Deal."

Ten minutes later he was frustrated again. "We've passed like five places selling hot chocolate," he accused as he stomped along beside Dick. "You said we were getting some."

"We _are_, Dami. There's just this one place that makes the best...you can't buy hot cocoa from anyone else here, it's not the same. I'm actually surprised that the others went straight off shopping instead of coming here first like they usually do...ah-ha!" He pointed ahead to where a long line was snaking through the crowd. "There it is. They're always super busy."

"...I am _not_ waiting half an hour for a cup of chocolate water. Just give me five dollars and I'll go get my own somewhere else."

"No, little brother, it's got to be this place," Dick said, steering him into line. "It won't take as long as you think; they're fast, and they've got it streamlined so that practically all you have to do is walk up and hand them your money."

"Grayson-"

A plea cut him off. "Just let me do Christmas right for you, okay? I know it's all new, but...just let me try to make it special. Please, Dami?" His eyes widened as his lower lip began to pooch out. "I want you to have fun, and the best way I can think of to do that is to show you all of the things that make this time of year special for me. The cocoa they serve here is one of those things. Don't tell him I said this," he glanced around, "but it's the only stuff I've ever found that's better than Alfred's. So just try it once, okay? If you don't like it, we won't come back."

It bothered Damian immensely that the man's begging was so effective. Making a mental note to ask him how he hypnotized people with his pout, he shuffled around to face forward again. The line had advanced several steps just during their short argument; maybe Grayson hadn't been exaggerating about the workers' speed, after all. "...This had better be the best thing that's ever been in my mouth," he warned half-heartedly.

Hands landed on his shoulders and pulled him back into an awkward hug. "It will be, little brother," Dick swore. "I promise."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: My apologies for breaking this story into two parts, but it is turning out too long for me to write in one day. Part two will post tomorrow. As a total aside, let me just say how much I wish we could have outdoor Christmas markets where I live. Drinking hot cocoa while browsing under a warm roof just isn't the same!<strong>


	16. Learning Christmas, Part 2

Five minutes later they were standing in a quiet patch between two tents with tall, striped cups in their hands. "...How's the cocoa?" Dick asked.

"It's..." He tasted it again. "It's good," he gave in grudgingly when he couldn't find any flaws. The stuff was thick and rich without being cloying, and there was a weird peppermint stickiness to it that he couldn't place but rather liked. "What did they put in it?"

"A candy cane. They have big vats of hot chocolate inside, right? So they fill up the same size cup for everyone, and they drop a crushed mini candy cane into it. They're usually a couple of orders ahead on their prep, so when it's busy like it was the candy gets a chance to really melt in well."

"Is that why there are no size options?"

"Right. People think it's strange that you can't order more or less, but having only one serving size makes the line go quick and ensures a consistent taste. It's clever." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "They do the same thing with raspberry lemonade in the summer."

"Mm." He didn't care about lemonade, but the longer Grayson rambled the less walking they had to do. Much to his chagrin, though, the man seemed to have run out of spiel.

"Let's go check out some of these booths. Alfred asked me to pick up something neat for Tim's stocking; let's see what we can find."

Damian shot him a disbelieving look. "You're asking me to do something nice for Drake?"

"I'm asking you to help me."

"Yeah, but...oh, fine." It wasn't like there was anything else to do, and helping Grayson…he could see his way clear to doing that, he supposed.

They wandered through what seemed like miles of curving pathways lined with booths and small tents bursting with wares. Occasionally they passed Bruce or Tim or Alfred, and Dick waved. Twice they backtracked in order to get more hot chocolate from the vendor whom Damian, too, now believed was the only one worth buying from. As lunch time approached, though, they still hadn't found anything that Dick was happy with as an additive for Tim's stocking.

"That place back there was selling gag stuff," Damian suggested.

"Eh. That's not really Timmy's game. If he wants to pull a prank he generally doesn't use cheap props."

"I just figured a blob of fake dog poop would match his personality."

"Daaami...be nice."

"It's not my fault if the truth is harsh." Tipping back his cup, he drained it. "...I'm out again."

"Okay. Here, let's get something to eat, okay? You're getting mean and I'm getting frustrated; I think we both need food."

They found spots at the end of a long, crowded picnic table and worked their way through reindeer hot dogs. Damian hadn't been expecting much from his, and was pleasantly surprised by how good it was. Dick, on the other hand, ate while wearing a guilty expression. "What's wrong with you?" the boy asked.

"Nothing. I love reindeer. It's just that I love them _alive_. Unfortunately they happen to be really, really tasty when they're dead..."

"You're in a moral quandary over a hot dog?"

"Um...more or less, yes. I still eat them, obviously, but part of me kind of hurts every time I do." He took another bite, then shivered. "The rest of me melts with happiness, though. It's confusing."

"It's ridiculous."

"It's that, too, but...I can't help how I feel."

When their food had vanished Damian pressed for more hot chocolate. Dick, though, had a different idea. "Come over this way for a sec," he beckoned. "We'll get your hot chocolate, but I have an idea first."

"...What is it?" he demanded as he trudged along beside him. The crowds had thinned out a little as people stopped to fill their stomachs, but they still had to bob and weave through the masses in order to make any progress. "Where are we going?"

"There are some other booths up here past all the boats and stuff. Sometimes they're not so great, but other times there's something amazing hidden in with them. I just want to check them out super quick, then I promise we'll go get your hot cocoa. Okay?"

"Mmph...if it's quick, then I guess so."

At first it seemed that the scheme hadn't worked out. All Damian saw were political and religious groups, chintzy-looking fortune tellers – each of which Dick peered at with a searching fervency that he couldn't understand but felt was somehow inappropriate to ask about – and recruiters for the military, the unions, and more. There were a few actual vendors sprinkled in, but for the most part they were selling either cheap plastic toys or feminine-looking bags and baubles. Just as he was about to complain that this was a waste of time, Dick gave out a squeak.

"I _knew_ we'd find something down here!"

Damian glanced towards where he was pointing. "Kaleidoscopes?" he asked, reading the sign plastered to the front of the tent. "That's your big solution?"

"Heck yes. Tim _loves_ kaleidoscopes. He made four or five of them for a science fair project once. He won the show, but he enjoyed the kaleidoscopes themselves way more than he did the ribbon. Let's see if they have little ones; one of those would be perfect for his stocking..."

There was indeed a stock of hand-sized viewers, some with cardboard or plastic tubes, others with ornate wooden or metal exteriors. The more expensive ones were kept behind the counter, and it was these to which Dick gravitated. Damian left him to talk to the seller and began to wander idly through the cheap versions. He knew what a kaleidoscope was and how it worked, but he couldn't be certain that he'd ever looked through one; what, he wondered, was all the fuss about?

Picking one up at random, he put it to his eye. "Whoa," escaped him as he turned the wheel at the end of the housing. Sparkling reds, greens, and golds – Christmas colors, he realized with a wry grimace – shifted and merged in ever-changing patterns. It wasn't the most amazing thing he'd ever seen, but there was something about the fleetingness of each arrangement that made it oddly mesmerizing. Putting down the first tube, he picked up a second, then a third. Each one made his breath catch a little. It was foolish to have such a reaction, he felt, but it came anyway, over and over again.

"...Ready, Dami?" Grayson's voice spoke beside him before he'd gone through much more than a dozen different designs.

He almost said no. Just in time he realized that that would give away that he was having fun, and he bit it back. "...All that, and you didn't even get anything?" he accused.

"I got something," Dick said, patting his coat pocket gently. "Relax. We can go get your hot chocolate now. Then we should head to where we're meeting the others; it's getting close to that time."

As good as a departure from the crowds sounded, if he'd been given the option he would have preferred to take a kaleidoscope home with him instead of cocoa. He kept his mouth shut, however, and simply nodded. "Good. Let's get out of here."

They stepped back out into the throngs of holiday shoppers. Before they'd gone far, Damian turned and looked back over his shoulder. The sign reading 'kaleidoscopes' was still visible, but the wares it promised were not. Setting his mouth, he faced front again and stomped after Grayson. What did he need something like that for, anyway? It was namby-pamby nonsense, with all those colors and shapes dancing around each other. Drake could stare into a tube all day if he wanted, but he had better things to do with his time.

But he still fired one last, longing stare behind him just before they rounded the corner.

…...

He was particularly unpleasant towards Tim over the next week, and as Saturday morning dawned he expected that there would be some extremely nasty holiday activity he had to take part in as payback. When the morning passed without any mention of singing carols or feeding the homeless, though, he grew curious. Finding Dick alone in the dining room, he approached slowly. "...Grayson?"

"Hmm?" Dick asked without looking up from the tiny bow he was tying. Two hundred identical packages covered the table before him, evidence of the size of his project.

"Are...aren't we doing something stupid today?"

"There's no time today," he answered, having apparently missed the judging adjective in the question. "Tonight's the ball."

"...The ball," Damian repeated. A tendril of dread unfolded in his stomach. He'd only been to a couple of high-class events since coming to Gotham, and he had heartily disliked both of them. A Christmas ball was far worse than any punishment he'd imagined receiving for his recent behavior. "I don't have to go to this thing, do I?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"No. You can't go, actually."

_That_ was a different story all together. "What do you mean I _can't_ go?!"

Dick finally met his narrowed gaze. "I mean you have to be sixteen to go. It's Bruce's law; he didn't want me around all the drinking that goes on at these things when I was little, so he made it a house rule. Jason didn't get to go until he was sixteen, either, and last year was Tim's first time."

"What if I _want_ to go?" He didn't, of course, but that wasn't the point.

"You _can't_, Dami. I'm sorry, but that's the rule. You'd be bored anyway," Dick insisted. "Honestly, you're not being left out of anything. You're actually kind of lucky; the rest of us got drafted into helping Alfred get ready – hence the stiff fingers," he joked, nodding to all of the knots he'd tied, "– but you got let off the hook. He said it wasn't fair to make you help when you couldn't attend. I agree, don't get me wrong, but frankly I'd rather not be decorating hundreds of tiny party favors in exchange for the so-called privilege of being stuck in a tuxedo all night."

Irked but able to tell that arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere, Damian simply huffed. "Fine. Go to your stupid party. I'll just sit in my room all night."

"Well...yeah, actually. That's...that's pretty much what you have to do. Sorry, little brother. I know it's not much fun to hear a party and know you aren't invited, but-"

"Whatever, Grayson." Whirling around, Damian began to stomp away.

"Dami! Look, I'll arrange a big snowball fight tomorrow, okay? You can throw as many as you want at me."

"Good," he snarked back just before he exited the room. "...I hope your hangover is insufferable."

"Aw, Dami..."

But he blocked out whatever came after that sad moan and headed towards the stairs. "…Don't want to go to their stupid Christmas ball anyway," he griped as he slammed his bedroom door shut. Locking it, he stalked to the bed and threw himself down. "I hope they all choke on the punch," he added in a hiss. "Especially Drake." Maybe if that happened Grayson would let him have the kaleidoscope that had been purchased for the older boy's stocking…

Raging silently at the ceiling, he drifted into sleep. The Manor's ballroom appeared below him, the gowns and jackets of its hundreds of occupants looking like tiny jewels from his height. The room fractured suddenly, as if it had been nothing more than a mirror and someone had just dropped it to the floor. Then the splintered sections began to spin, and the ladies and gentlemen of Gotham were cloned over and over again only to disappear just as quickly. They moved in ways that no normal humans had ever managed before, passing through one another and coming out the other side, sliding off of the edges of the room and reappearing on the far side, blooming into being in what had been naught but blankness a moment before.

Damian didn't want to join the movement, but he ached to know if the illusion was spoiled at ground level. Struggling, he tried to free himself from the bindings that were holding him high above the show. It was a useless effort; they were well-made and well-tested, having been used on three others before him. His predecessors hadn't escaped either, he knew, and it would be six more years before the ropes let him go of their own accord. Six long years of exclusion, when all he wanted was to be included…

"Damian?"

He twisted around, searching for the speaker of his name. Maybe whoever it was could help him get down, get to the party. It hadn't sounded like Grayson, but he hoped that was who he would find. The man had already told him no once today, but if anyone would lend him aid it was Dick.

As if in response to that thought, he felt his harness give way. It happened without warning, and he plunged down into the beautiful array below completely devoid of control. The picture shattered into a million pieces, which fell alongside him into blackness. He tried to cover his head lest the shards of glass cut him, but they were still morphing, softening and paling until they looked for all the world like snowflakes drifting gently towards the earth.

There was a jolt as he landed on his stomach. He had exactly enough time to register that he was on a bright plastic sled before the thing took off beneath him, plummeting down a hill he hadn't realized he was atop of. Trees came into view ahead, and he braced himself for action. Left, right, left, left, right…he shifted to the best of his ability, but the land was still throwing him downward. It was too fast, much too fast, and he wasn't even wearing a helmet…

He crashed with horrifying speed. For a moment he felt himself flying through the air, and then the ground caught up with him and everything faded away.

"Daaami…"

He couldn't move to respond. His arms and legs and mouth were dead, useless, severed. The world was blackness, and he was alone, alone and hurt and sorry.

"Dami…you okay, little brother?"

A hand landed on his arm, and miraculously he could feel again. Gasping, he opened his eyes. "…Grayson?" he muttered, recognizing the concerned face above him despite the man's formal get-up.

"Hey. What are you doing on the floor? That's not a very comfortable place to sleep."

"Um…" He must have fallen off of the mattress at some point during his long, confusing dream, but that was too embarrassing to admit. Rather than answer he sat up and changed the subject. "What are you doing here?" he growled, his earlier upset flooding back in as he remembered why he was clad in a t-shirt while Dick was wearing a tie. "I don't want your pity, Grayson. Just go to your stupid party and leave me alone."

"The stupid party's over," Dick informed him gently. "Which I'm glad about, believe me. I just wanted to check on you. You missed dinner, you know."

"Who cares?"

"I do. Bruce let himself in with his key and tried to wake you up to eat, but apparently all you did was roll over and flail at him to go away. He thought it was best to just leave you alone. But," he went on before Damian could rudely inform him that Bruce had been correct and ought to be emulated, "I didn't think it was fair that you miss out on _everything _about the party, especially when you didn't even get dinner, so I snagged a few things for you from downstairs." He bounced his eyebrows suggestively. "Are you hungry, little brother?"

"No," he jabbed, but his stomach immediately and loudly contradicted him.

Dick laughed. "Heh. Somehow I don't believe you. Here." Standing up, he retrieved a small plate from the dresser. "I left off the hors d'oeuvres I didn't think you'd like. And for dessert…" A long, thick rod of striped candy appeared from where he'd hidden it up his sleeve. "Ta-da!"

"…They had all this stuff at the ball?"

"Yeah. That's why I thought you might want some. You know, since…since you couldn't go."

The gesture both aggravated and gentled Damian's anger. On the one hand, he wanted people to think that he had no interest in attending something as absurd as a Christmas ball; on the other hand, he would have preferred to be there instead of shut away in his room. He would have complained the entire time and asserted afterwards that it had been the worst waste of time he'd ever experienced, but at least he wouldn't have felt left out. The emotion that rose above all of that, though, was gratitude that someone had remembered him, all alone upstairs in his chamber. "Um…thanks," he mumbled awkwardly.

"You bet, Dami."

He tried to make it look like he was eating without any pleasure, but he was so hungry and the food was so good that he couldn't manage the trick. The appetizers he'd been brought vanished, and in the space of a few minutes he had moved on to the candy cane. "…Did the party have _any_ redeeming features?" he ground out, interested despite himself.

"Eh. It was typical. Tim and Bruce and I made bad jokes when no one could hear us and saved each other from some of the clingier attendees." He paused. "It would have been better if you'd been there."

"Yeah, right."

"It would have been. You're not afraid to say the things that the rest of us only think. Sometimes you take it too far, but…it would have been fun to hear what you were thinking, provided that you kept your voice down." A beat passed. "…I kind of got the feeling you were mad at me earlier, you know."

"…Yeah, well…"

"I guess I got you kind of used to being 'dragged out'," he grinned knowingly as he made air quotes with his fingers, "to do Christmas stuff every day this month and then switched it up without notice, huh? I left you hanging."

"…Kind of."

"Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that to you, honestly, little brother. Look…I know you'll never admit it, but…have you been having fun with the stuff we've been doing? The Christmas stuff? I know you liked sledding, and the hot chocolate last weekend, but…was anything else okay for you?"

Damian considered him for a long moment. Most of what they'd done had sounded stupid and overblown and boring at the beginning, but once he'd gotten started each activity had usually turned out at least mildly amusing. "It's been…okay," he confessed. "Mostly…" _Mostly because of you,_ he held back.

"Mostly what?"

"…Nothing. Just…I don't mind some of it, I guess."

"What was the best part?"

"Sledding," he said without hesitation.

"…Did you like it enough to do it again tomorrow?"

He frowned. "I thought I was going to get to pummel you with snowballs tomorrow!"

Dick laughed again. "You will, I promise. I meant after that."

"…You want to do two things in one day?"

"Sure. Except…look, would you _please_ wear a helmet if you're going to go into the woods while we sled? I know helmets aren't cool, or whatever, but…please? I just don't want you to get hurt."

Damian recalled the brief bolt of fear he'd felt in his dream in the instant before he'd crashed, and the paralysis that had overwhelmed him afterward. "You won't take any pictures, right?" he verified. "And you won't tell anyone about it?"

"I won't."

"Then…then okay. I guess if that's what it takes for me to go sledding in the woods…"

An arm wrapped itself around his shoulders and squeezed. "Thanks, Dami. I really appreciate it."

"Whatever," he shrugged, secretly relieved. "Are we done, or…?"

"There's one more thing. You've been _really_ mean to Tim this week – more than usual, even – and…well, I was wondering…are you jealous of him for something?"

"Jealous? You're joking. It's _Drake_. What does he have for me to be jealous of?"

"Maybe nothing yet," Dick said secretively. "…But maybe you're jealous of something he's going to have in another week or so?"

Damian started, surprised at the accuracy of the man's suggestion. "What are you talking about?" he challenged.

Dick sighed. "Look, I was saving this for Christmas but I think we'll all have a more pleasant rest of the season if I give it to you now. I don't want you to think I'm rewarding your treatment of Timmy, because I'm not, but I also don't want him to suffer between now and then because you're jealous. So…" A wrapped package appeared seemingly out of nowhere. "Here."

"…What is it?"

"Open it and see."

He undid the taped seams slowly, hoping against hope that Dick had somehow fathomed his sentiments of a week earlier. A plain white box came into view, increasing his urgency to see what was inside. His fingers fumbled their way beneath the end flap, and a round tube of dark wood inlaid with mother of pearl slipped into his palm. He gulped. "Is…is it?"

"Yup. Your very own kaleidoscope. I picked it out at the same time I was getting Tim's. I hadn't planned to get you one, but you seemed to like them once you started checking them out. I thought maybe it was something you two could…I don't know, bond over? Or have in common, at least. Anyway…I would really appreciate it if you didn't let Timmy know you have it until he gets his on Christmas. I don't want him to think that I forgot how much he likes them. And maybe now that you don't have any reason to be jealous of him – and by your own admission, remember – you'll be a little nicer. Do you think you can make that happen for me?"

Damian stared down at the apparatus in his hand. "Um…yeah. I can…I can try and do that." _For you._

An arm wrapped around his shoulders again. "…Thanks, Dami. No one's going out on patrol tonight," Dick shared, "but don't stay up too late anyway, okay? We've got a lot of rolling in the snow to do tomorrow; you don't want to be too tired for that."

"Okay," he agreed. The weight on the mattress beside him lifted. "...Grayson?"

"Hmm?"

"Uh…don't tell anybody I said this, but…I guess Christmas is pretty okay. I mean, it's not _all_ annoying. There are…there are some good parts."

Dick gave him a warm smile. "Sure there are, little brother," he agreed. "You just had to learn about them in order to appreciate them. By next year you'll be a pro."

"…Yeah…"

"Yeah. Anyway…good night, Dami. See you at breakfast."

The door closed, but Damian didn't get up to lock it. Instead, he raised his gift to his eye and let his hand turn the end of the tube. The dancers inside spun impossibly into each other again, and the boy hovering above them smiled.

Learning Christmas really wasn't so bad, after all.


	17. Snow Patrol

"...What's up?" Jason asked with a frown as Dick approached from the direction of the cave. "Aren't you coming out with us tonight?"

"No one's going out tonight, little brother," the older man grinned. "Not to Gotham, at least."

He shook his head, confused. "...Are we going somewhere else, then?" Maybe there was something going on at the Watchtower, he mused, or another hero had asked them to cover their city over the holidays. The former seemed more likely than the latter – Batman wasn't known for his generosity, after all – but one never knew.

"Yeah. To the back lawn."

"The back...why?"

Dick stopped short and stared at him. "Uh-oh," he grinned. "No one told you, did they?"

"Told me what?"

"Bruce, you dork, you didn't tell Jay about tonight!"

The billionaire, who had just emerged from behind the clock and was carefully pushing it shut, frowned. "What about tonight?" he asked.

"About snow patrol!"

"...Oh. You're right, I didn't." Joining them midway between the cave and the foyer, Bruce crossed his arms and explained. "None of us go out on patrol on Christmas Eve, not unless there's a major emergency."

"Instead," Dick announced, practically bouncing with anticipation, "we go outside and have a massive snowball fight. But we're going to need teams this year," he added, turning back to Bruce. "Unless you were thinking we'd just have a three-way battle?"

"Mm...no. Teams are fine. But you'll have to convince Alfred to join us."

"My best thing! I'm on it. See you guys in a minute."

When Dick had gone, Jason addressed his mentor. "...You _really_ don't go to the city tonight?" he asked. "Not even after the snowball fight?"

"No. I used to go out on Christmas Eve, but once Dick became Robin we started doing this instead."

That was all the reasoning the man gave, but Jason could read into it from there. If Robin and Nightwing were at home on Christmas Eve, nothing bad could happen to them. Batman might have to stay in as well, but to the overprotective billionaire that would seem a small price to pay. "...Okay," he nodded. "Cool. So...snowball fight."

"Right." A hand landed on his shoulder and began steering him towards the foyer. "A word of advice, though; watch out for Dick's curveball. He's got a tricky one, and it's _fast_."

"What makes you think he won't be on my team?" Jason challenged.

"Because I always pick first for family team events."

"And you're going to pick Dick."

"Right."

"So then why are you feeding secrets to your opponent?"

"Because someday you might need him to throw you something more important than a snowball, and I don't want you to think you have to move to catch it just because it looks like it's coming in high. It will go exactly where he's aiming it, trust me." He paused, his hand falling back to his side as they reached the entry closet. "...Maybe I should have put him in baseball when he was a kid," he mused. "No, he would never have had time for something like that. Neither one of you do." A proud little smirk arched his lips for a moment. "Too busy with more important things."

Jason loved seeing that tiny uptick of lips when he knew that he was included in the thought or comment that had inspired it, and now he smiled too. "Yeah," he nodded. "Like snowball fights."

"Like snowball fights," Bruce agreed.

"Hey guys, I got him!" Dick announced as he entered the foyer again.

"I consent to this fight only if you stop speaking as if you've caught a trophy fish, young sir," the butler trailing along behind him protested.

"Sorry, Alfred," Dick apologized. "I'm just excited. But if you _were_ a fish, you'd totally be a world record. Just saying."

"Yeah," Jason added without thinking, "I mean, how many fish have you ever met who can cook an omelette?"

"Oh-ho," Dick chortled. "...You better watch out for friendly fire after that, Jay. At least I assume I'm with you, Bruce?"

"You are."

"Excellent."

"Now, now," Alfred waved off. "There's no reason to fret about friendly fire. I'm going to choose to interpret Master Jason's remark as nothing more than a compliment of my cooking. That _is _all you meant by it, isn't it, young sir?"

Caught off guard, he stuttered. "Uh...yes?"

"Very good," the butler said, and winked.

Jason felt himself relax. He'd been looking forward to a nice brisk patrol after having spent all evening doing all his winter break homework, but staying home and throwing snowballs around was starting to sound better and better with each passing minute. Besides, he mused, _someone_ had had to teach Dick that curveball that Bruce seemed so impressed with; maybe Alfred would pass the secret on to him, too. "Let's get dressed," he suggested, suddenly eager. "I'm ready for some action!"

* * *

><p>"…How do you <em>do<em> that?" he asked some twenty minutes later as a perfectly round lump of snow rolled out of Alfred's hands and onto a pile of identical balls. "Is it just practice?"

"Practice comes into it, yes," Alfred answered without looking up from his task. "But there is a technique involved as well. I'll be happy to show you, but," he smiled, "I think we need another inch or two on our barricade first, hmm?"

He started at the reminder. "Oh, right." Both teams had agreed to a half-hour arms race during which they could build up their defenses and stockpile supplies. Two-third of that time was now gone, and while the butler had supplied them with a respectable arsenal their walls were still lacking. Glancing over his shoulder towards Dick and Bruce's preparations, Jason gave a displeased harrumph. The compact shield they had constructed gleamed beneath the spotlights illuminating the yard, making it look as if it was coated in ice. It's makers were out of sight behind it, no doubt both busily packing together projectiles. Jealous of their experienced prowess, he began to pile huge armfuls of snow atop his own effort, pounding it down with his hands until it was firm.

The end came much too quickly. "Five!" A warning rang out from the other camp. "Four!" Jason hurriedly pressed one last clump into place. "Three!" Alfred, veteran that he was, called him to safety. "Two!" He scrambled around the edge of the wall, wondering if the others would cheat and launch their assault early. "One!" His back pressed against the inside of his barricade, and he sighed with relief. "WAR!"

He wasn't expecting that last roar, which sounded like it had come from twelve throats rather than two. Almost immediately on its heels came the hard _splat splat_ of a pair of snowballs breaking behind him. A second wave followed, then a third. It seemed wasteful to him that the others were throwing their weapons against a blank wall, but in a moment's time he understood the genius behind it.

Dick and Bruce weren't taunting them with those 'pointless' shots; they were just been finding their range.

"Gah!" he cried out as a spray of snow came down atop his head. The sphere that had caused the shower ricocheted off the crest of the wall and bounced to a stop just beyond his boots. For a moment he simply stared at it and wondered what exactly he'd been thinking when he'd agreed to go toe-to-toe with Batman and Nightwing, of all people.

"Shall we engage, Master Jason?" Alfred queried, his voice carrying a hint of excitement.

"Yes!" he answered, galvanized by the question. Adrenalin flooded his system as another volley came in. Once it had passed – they'd overshot things a little this time, but he was sure that that meant the next round would be right on target – he clawed for the snowball that had grazed him with shrapnel. "Have some of your own medicine!" he called, and hurled it blindly back.

A distant yelp told him he'd scored a hit. It had been pure luck, but it earned him an appreciative nudge from his partner. "Well thrown, young sir!" the butler congratulated as he rose to toss a snowball of his own. He came back with his shoulder coated in powder. "…That bloody curveball of his," he muttered, shaking his head even as he smirked.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" Jason asked as he snagged another round and leaned out sideways to fire it off. "Dick's curveball? Bruce says it's really good, so I figure you must have taught it to him."

"I'm afraid I _wasn't_ the one who taught Master Dick how to throw like that. I've always imagined that his father or one of their friends from the circus helped him develop it."

"…Oh." Disappointed, he lobbed his next ball extra hard. Bruce ducked it, but barely. "Do you think Dick would teach me, then?" he continued the conversation once he'd dived back under cover.

"I'm sure he would, if you asked him. You know how Master Dick is, with his penchant for sharing."

"Yeah…" Grabbing two snowballs this time, he rolled to his knees. Dick chose that moment to 'share' a projectile of his own, which crashed squarely into the spare Jason was cradling and smashed it into bits. "Hey! No attacking my supply lines!" he shouted.

"Should have circled the wagons, little brother!"

"…Circled the wagons," he muttered as he fell back to fill his hands again. "I'll circle _your_ wagon…"

"Master Jason, I should warn you that there is a no faces rule in this match," Alfred cautioned.

"What if I _accidentally_ hit him in the face? Just once?"

A wad of snow, evidently tossed underhand by one of their smirking, sneaking enemies, plopped down dead-center atop Alfred's head. Flushing red and pursing his lips, the butler reached up and brushed the flakes away. Then he gave a decorous little cough and turned to Jason. "If it's an accident, young sir," he said, his eyes hard but twinkling, "then I don't suppose I can hold it against you."

"_Awesome_." He swept up another half-dozen snowballs. "Then I'm going to machine gun these. Pray and spray, all the way."

"An excellent plan, given the slipperiness of our opponents. I'll replenish our stores in the meantime." Alfred gave him the sort of nod that Jason usually associated with suicide missions in war movies. "Good luck, Master Jason. Get them both once for me, would you?"

"Totally." Lost in the moment, he stood up all the way. A fresh barrage flew up from the icy fortress several dozen yards away, but he didn't falter. Instead he let out a wordless cry and began to windmill his free arm, returning fire with speed but little accuracy. It didn't matter; the assault managed to peg both members of the other team, and he dropped back to the ground wearing a broad, panting grin.

"Were you successful?"

"Got 'em both," he managed.

"Good boy," Alfred said heartily. A fresh load was pushed forward. "Whenever you're ready, you might repeat the feat."

Jason's smirk turned wicked. "Abso-freaking-lutely I will," he promised as another attack rained down around them. "Abso-freaking-lutely."

* * *

><p>Lying in bed two hours later, he tried to count the number of bruises he had accrued during the battle. His tired mind kept losing track, so he eventually gave up. It didn't matter anyway – he'd had more fun this Christmas Eve night than he had had on plenty of past Christmas <em>days<em>, and that was what he cared about.

He'd hit Dick square on the jaw during his third machine-gun bout, and had gotten Bruce in the ear with the fourth. Once Alfred had built up a fresh backlog of ammunition he'd rejoined the fight, letting Jason supply covering fire while he took more carefully directed shots from below. Their opponents had responded by adjusting their tactics, popping up and falling back like unpredictable gophers. Sometimes they would both emerge, and only one would throw; other times one would show themselves in order to draw fire then duck to signal that the other should rise and fire before reloads could be procured. It was bedlam, and Jason loved it.

The sniping, pummeling, and good-natured name calling lasted until they were all soaked and shivering. Once they'd shed their dripping winter gear Alfred had hustled them into the living room, where he'd stoked a huge blaze in the fireplace and then turned on the Christmas tree lights. A few minutes later he'd pressed huge, steaming mugs of hot chocolate into their frigid hands and encouraged them to drink while he fetched one last item.

Jason had put his nose so close to the surface of the liquid in order to savor the smell that he'd nearly drowned. He had pulled back only in order to accept the gift that the butler passed to him upon his return. Being allowed to open the package had been a pleasant surprise despite the fact that it revealed nothing more than pajamas. They were comfortable, though, and so long as he didn't dwell on the fact that Bruce and Dick had gotten pairs identical to his own Jason rather liked them.

Even better than the present, though, had been the conversation he'd had with Dick as they'd tromped upstairs to put on their new night clothes and go to sleep. "Could…could you show me how you were throwing those curveballs?" he'd asked, pausing outside of the older teen's door. "Whatever you were doing was super-effective."

Dick had shot him a surprised look. "Sure thing, Jay," he'd grinned after a second. "Any time. But we'll practice in the gym or the garage or something; it's way easier to learn with your bare hand and a baseball than it would be with gloves and snowballs."

Pleased, Jason had wished him a sincere goodnight and continued on his way. Recalling the promise that had been made now brought a faint smile to his half-unconscious expression and led straight into his memory of the other oath that had been made this evening. Lacking any opportunity to teach him how to make the perfect snowball while they were fighting, Alfred had pulled him aside once peace was declared and made mention of private lessons. After Christmas, the butler had said, they would take advantage of Bruce and Dick's return to work to hone their techniques for next year in secret. It sounded fantastic, and Jason wasn't sure if he was more eager for tomorrow morning or for the clandestine tactics sessions that would come after that.

What he _did_ know was that this was by far the best Christmas Eve he had ever had. He was warm, his stomach was full and his muscles tired, and he had activities to look forward to with two of the three people who made up what he was quickly beginning to think of as his family. Life was good.

So long as he could have just one night like this every year for the rest of his days, he thought as he drifted off into a blissful slumber, he would be happy.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Ah, the classic snowball fight. If you're looking up your snowball game or are just curious about different kinds of snowballs (yes, there are different kinds), I've put a video up about it on my blog.<strong>

**For those of you who have been waiting for more young Dick, you'll get your wish tomorrow. Happy reading!**


	18. A Christmas for the Birds

Dick didn't understand, and that bothered him.

There were many things in the world that he couldn't quite grasp – why some people believed that it was okay to kill other people, why everyone else in the JLA let Batman get away with acting uptight and dour when they all knew he was a complete softie inside, what it was that made Alfred's cookies so impossibly delicious – but for the last week one puzzle in particular had been bothering him. He'd looked up answers online and in the Manor's extensive library, he'd asked his science teacher to explain, and he'd even queried Bruce on the subject, but he still wasn't satisfied. It seemed impossible, and if there was anything he had learned during the short time he'd been Robin it was to question everything that made him say 'no way'.

How was it, he thought for the thousandth time as he stared out the living room window at the shapes flitting around in the naked shrubs, that little birds survived the long, cruel Gotham winter?

"Master Dick?"

He started at Alfred's voice. The butler sounded a little perturbed, and from that Dick gathered that he had been trying to get his attention for some time. Tearing his eyes away from the winged animals on the other side of the glass, he turned around. "Sorry," he apologized, blushing. "I...I was distracted. I wasn't ignoring you, honest."

Alfred's posture softened immediately, and Dick knew he wasn't in trouble. "And what is it that has captured your attention so thoroughly today, young sir?"

"It's...it's the birds," he blurted out, glancing into the yard once more. "I just don't _understand_, Alfred. How do they do it?!"

"Do what, exactly?"

"Make it through the winter. It's so cold here, and dark, and there's all the snow...it's pretty, but how do they eat? Don't they freeze? Their legs don't even have any feathers on them!" He sighed, suddenly feeling foolish for placing his questions before yet another adult. "I guess it doesn't matter. I mean, they obviously manage okay, and Bruce and my teacher and the internet all explained how it works, but...it just doesn't seem possible, you know?"

"Hmm..." Alfred watched him for a moment, tapping his chin pensively with one long finger. "Why don't we sit for a moment and talk about it? Perhaps we can clear up some of your confusion."

"Um...okay." Preparing himself to wait politely through a repetition of what he'd already been told, he moved to the nearest sofa and sat down on one end. The butler took a seat in a chair a few feet away and leaned forward, still observing him closely. "So...how exactly are we supposed to talk about it?"

"Tell me, Master Dick; this is your first real winter, is it not?"

He frowned, thinking. "I guess so. I've seen snow before, though."

"But you are used to spending the holiday season in...Florida, I believe it was?"

"Yeah..." A shiver ran through him, and his feet were suddenly blocks of ice. He pulled them up and tucked them under himself before he continued. "And in Italy and Spain, too, when I was littler. Where...where it was warm enough for the trailers."

"I see. So you've never witnessed animals living through the duration of a true winter, then?"

"No. I know how it works, I get the science about it, but...I don't know _why_ it works. Like with food; even if people put feeders out now, what did the birds do for all those bajillions of years before people and feeders existed? They can't have all flown south in the winter, right? And they don't have trucks and planes to bring them food from warm places the way we do, either. I know they eat a lot in summer and then live off some of it in the winter, but...don't they still starve?"

"Some do," Alfred nodded. "But many survive in just the manner you said."

"But..." He floundered, unsure of what exactly was taunting him. "I mean...darn it..."

"If I may venture a guess, Master Dick," the butler said after a beat had passed, "I think your concern isn't so much based on a lack of understanding as it is on a sense of helplessness."

"A sense of...of helplessness?" he repeated, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes. You say you don't understand how the birds survive the winter, but you clearly _do_ understand, at least logically. For some reason your mind is insisting that the facts are not enough, and what that suggests to me is a want for action. It's rather like with Batman."

Dick straightened up immediately. "Like Batman? How?"

"Well, it isn't enough for him to know who did or will commit a crime, is it? He must go out and catch the fiend himself even though he could very easily give all of his evidence to the police and let them do the nasty work. For you it isn't enough to know that the birds eat what they can and make it through the cold months. Perhaps your solution is like Batman's."

"I have to do something about it," he mused. "...But what? I guess we could get a bird feeder, but there's a forest all around us. We'd need, like, a thousand of them to feed everybody."

"I think we can come up with something better than that, Master Dick," Alfred said. "I have an idea, but it will require that I make a few purchases tomorrow. Can you wait until then to do something for the birds?"

He wanted to do something for them _now_, but if they didn't have everything they needed then he would have to hold out until the next day. "...I guess so," he allowed. "So long as I know we can fix it tomorrow, then that's okay."

"Very good, young sir." Reaching out, Alfred patted his knee. "Now then, the reason I came to find you to begin with was to see if you wanted your usual after-school snack. I assume an assortment of Christmas cookies and a glass of milk are acceptable?"

Dick glanced back out the window to where the birds were still socializing. They would have lots of food tomorrow, he told himself, but only if he ate today. After all, he couldn't do much for them if he was starving, too. Satisfied with that logic, he stood up. "Sure, Alfred," he agreed. "Cookies sound great."

* * *

><p>The next day was the last one of the school semester, and as such classes let out early. Dick trudged to the waiting car with his head and his heart both low, ignoring the running and hollering his fellows were doing all around him. Climbing into his seat, he mumbled a greeting.<p>

"Good afternoon, Master Dick," Alfred replied, peering at his charge in the rearview mirror. Judging that the youth needed a minute to collect himself, he pulled away from the curb. It was only when they were lost in some of Gotham's deepest Christmas shopping traffic that he ventured a question. "...Did something happen at school today, young sir? You seem distressed."

Dick just sniffled and stared out the window, seemingly unwilling to answer.

"...If it's a problem with your report card, I assure you that neither Master Wayne nor I will be-" But Dick was already shaking his head. "No? An altercation with another student, then, or…?"

"There was a dead bird on the playground today." The words fell from the boy's mouth in a dull, trembling tone. "It wasn't...it wasn't like it flew into a window or anything. It was out...out in the middle. It didn't even look that hungry, Alfred!" he burst out. "It looked...it looked _normal! _But it just died anyway." His boots dug into the fine leather of his seat as he pushed his knees up to his chest in order to wrap his arms around them. Alfred winced, but said nothing. "It just...it just _died_. It should have gone south for the winter, but it didn't, and it died." He coughed. "I'm sick of things dying all the time."

He had thought that there was something more to the child's despair yesterday than a simple desire to feed the local birds, and here was validation. While Dick had proven remarkably strong in the nine months that had passed since his parents' deaths, he was still only nine, and there were plenty of triggers in the world waiting to remind him of his relatively new status as a victim of violence. In hindsight Alfred supposed that he should have been expecting something like this to occur, but he had been blinded by the boy's resilience.

The only consolation he had for his failure was that there was a partial remedy waiting for them at home. He bit back an inappropriate chuckle as the thought struck him that, despite their lack of biological relation, his younger charge really _was_ just like his elder in some things. Philosophy wasn't enough to bind their wounds; they had to _do_ something, something real and meaningful, before they could heal from life's cuts and scrapes. "Perhaps we can do something to prevent similar tragedies, young sir," he soothed now.

"...Huh?" came a hiccup.

"I have the materials I promised yesterday. Do you still wish to help the birds find ample winter sustenance, as we discussed?"

Dick swiped at his cheeks with the back of one hand and nodded. "What...what are we going to do? You never said your idea."

"You're right, I didn't. But tell me; you enjoyed decorating the Christmas tree, did you not?"

"Yeah." Another nod. "It was neat to do one that was so big."

"Excellent. That being the case, would you like to decorate one outside for the birds?"

The boy frowned. "...But they can't eat Christmas decorations. That would hurt them."

"They'll be able to eat the ones you and I are going to make when we get home."

"We're going to make special ornaments just for the birds?"

"Would you like to?"

"Yes! If it will help them not die, then yes!"

"Excellent." Relieved to see the beginnings of a smile, he sweetened the pot. "I thought we might listen to Christmas music and have a cookie or two while we work. Is that acceptable?"

An excited squeak told him that it was. "Very good. Now that our after-school activity is settled, would you be so kind as to tell me about the rest of your day? Other than the unfortunate bird you discovered, of course." He paused. "You might share your grades with me, if you like." They would be good, he was certain – no one who regularly checked the youth's homework could be in doubt about that – but he would gladly listen to anything in the world so long as it kept the miserable look Dick had been wearing when he'd emerged from the school building from reappearing.

"Sure." There it was, the happy expression that seemed to be the boy's default look. A hint of pain lingered at its edges, but Alfred was confident he knew how to banish even that shadow. "I did good in lots of stuff," Dick explained as he lowered his legs and began to dig through his backpack. "...I just hope I did good _enough."_

"Oh, I'm sure you did very well, Master Dick," the butler allowed. The traffic began to move again, and he pulled his gaze away to concentrate on the road. "...I'm sure it will all be just fine..."

* * *

><p>Several hours later Dick was feeling better than he had in days. Alfred had been pleased with his report card, which he'd read out line by line on the ride home; there had been a pile of cookies waiting for him when he entered the kitchen; and most importantly, he was finally helping the birds. Something was still tickling the back of his brain despite his current joy, but it felt like it might be big, dark, and scary, so he just hoped it would go away and tried to ignore it.<p>

Fortunately it was relatively easy to not think about bad things at the moment. He and Alfred had spent the last three hours working together in the kitchen to make the special bird ornaments, and Dick thought they'd turned out very nice. They were nothing more than store-bought pine cones slathered in peanut butter and then rolled in mixed bird seed, but the bright pipe cleaner hangers they had attached to each one made them look festive. Hung together, they really did seem to make a birdie Christmas tree. Better still, he thought as he peeked over his shoulder at the house, he would be able to see everything from his bedroom window. Alfred had promised that many different species would come, and now he could watch them whenever he wanted to.

They both stepped back once the last piece of their project had been hung. "Wow," Dick breathed as he took it in. "That looks amazing!" The red and green hooks lent a pop of color to the young fir whose boughs they were bent around, and the seeded pine cones stood out surprisingly well against their green-needled backdrop. "Look!" he squealed as a pair of wings fluttered nearby. "They're already coming to eat!"

"So they are," Alfred concurred. "You've given them an excellent Christmas present."

"Now they'll make it through the winter, even though they didn't go south." It didn't matter so much anymore that there was snow on the ground and a bit more than a little nip in the air; the birds had good food to keep them alive, and Alfred had even promised to leave the back lights on for them every night until spring so they could see. They would live and be happy.

"They shall indeed." Something rustled, and Dick looked over to find the butler kneeling beside him with a gentle look on his face. A pair of gloved hands rested on his shoulders and squeezed. "...So shall you, Master Dick," was breathed quietly. "Even though you didn't go south this year."

He blinked, startled. The slithering beast in the back of his mind recoiled, then slithered away. Was that what he had really been worried about this whole time, he wondered? Not the birds, but himself? But there was no reason to worry about either of them, not now; the birds had their seeds, and he had good grades and people who would help him work through problems he didn't even know he was having. "...You're right, Alfred," he said slowly. "Just like they will. But..."

"But what, young sir?"

He looked back at the tree. A half a dozen individuals were clinging to it and pecking at the ornaments that had been designed just for them, and he had no doubt that more would be on their way once the message had been chirped through the forest. "When they eat these ornaments, could...could we make more? Even if it's not Christmas time any more, could we keep the birdie tree up? Please?"

Alfred smiled. "Of course we can. We don't want any little birds going hungry, now do we?"

Dick shook his head and leaned forward, forcing a hug on the man. "Thanks, Alfred."

"Not at all, Master Dick. It's my pleasure. Now," he pulled back, "we'd better get inside. Master Wayne will be home soon."

"Can I show him our new Christmas tree?"

"I'm sure he'd very much like to see it. Come along, now."

He obeyed, skipping back to the rear door they had come out of earlier. "Oh!" he exclaimed just before he mounted the step. "I forgot something." Turning, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Merry Christmas, birdies!" he called out. The creatures on the tree didn't react, but Dick just shrugged. "I guess they heard me." With that he passed into the house, content in his new certainty that the Manor was a great home for birds of all kinds – especially Robins.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I'll post directions on how exactly to make Dick and Alfred's bird seed ornaments to my blog later today. Happy reading!<strong>


	19. A Dream Come True

**Author's Note: This chapter contains a fair number of Romani words. They're scattered, so they shouldn't affect readability too much, but I've put a key down at the bottom of the chapter as well as on my blog for those who don't like to scroll up and down and would prefer to flip over to another tab. There's also some info on my blog today about a couple of the items Dick receives as gifts, so check that out if you're interested. Happy reading!**

* * *

><p>The morning was balmy and bright, marking the beginning of a perfect South Florida Christmas Day. Dick couldn't have been happier as he pedaled his battered but much-loved bicycle along the side of a narrow highway. His six-week stint doing dusty and uninteresting construction work in a nearby city was finally at an end; a salt-scented breeze was blowing his long hair back and lifting the sweat from his neck; and the circus would be heading out on tour again in less than two week's time. Best of all, a crooked sign was glinting up ahead, marking where he would turn off. At the end of that road's cracked pavement waited home, and he couldn't wait to get there. His legs sped up their pistoning, and he raced towards his destination with a broad grin on his face.<p>

His mother was sitting on the front porch when he squealed to a stop in front of the tidy little bungalow. "…Hi, baby," she greeted, giving him a warm smile. Setting her darning aside, she rose and came forward. "Mmm, I missed you," her voice grazed his ear as they embraced tightly. "You're earlier than I expected. You didn't leave before dawn, did you?"

"No," he promised. "I just went fast."

"Fast, along a highway, and with no helmet or knee pads..." Shaking her head, she squeezed him. "My little daredevil."

"Runs in the family," John's voice piped up behind them. "C'mere, _mo shav_."

Dick turned into his father's embrace, and was nearly lifted off of the ground. "Hi, dad. _Sar mai san_?" It was a relief to feel those familiar words rolling off of his tongue after a month and half of holding them back. For most of the year he communicated using a mixed language that consisted primarily of English syntax and vocabulary peppered with Romani words and phrases, and while he could speak and write perfectly good plain English he preferred the tongue that ran in his blood. It was the private language of Haly's Circus, and he had longed for it almost as much as he had for his parents.

"I finished the chicken coop."

"Ah...now I know what you were working on all this time. When did you finish?" Mary had had the idea many years earlier that the circus should carry fowl along with it to produce fresh eggs for the troupe, and it had become habit for the entire flock to spend the winter break with at the tiny Grayson homestead. During the traveling season they were tended to by the women, but for two months a year John liked to take over. He had just begun building a new coop when Dick had left for his job, and now he crowed over his achievement.

"_Owêrish_," he said, puffing up slightly.

"Day before yesterday?" Dick grinned. "Just in time for _Krechúno_."

"I found the wood at the dump. All it cost me was a box of nails and some time. But your mother doesn't want to hear about my chicken coop," John teased, glancing at his wife. "She wants to hear about you, and so do I."

"He's right," Mary said. "I've had to hear about every drop of sweat that went into that coop. I could use a change of topic." She took Dick's elbow gently and began to lead him inside. "Leave your backpack by the door and I'll wash your clothes later. I made the lemonade just the way you like it," she told him. "Extra sugar."

"Aw, mom_..._you're the best."

A minute later he was sitting in his usual chair under the creaky old kitchen fan and lifting a slippery glass to his lips. He could feel his parents' eyes on him, eating him up as he drank thirstily. Their concern about his time alone in the city amused him; he could spend all day flying around thirty or forty feet above the ground and they wouldn't think twice about it, but as soon as he took a short-term job to get a little extra cash they needed to know all the details. Wanting to spare their feelings, he tucked his mocking smirk away as he lowered his drink. "It's perfect," he complimented. "Exactly what I needed after that long bike ride."

"You were all right without a car, weren't you?" Mary asked. "You didn't have to ride far to get back and forth from work?"

He shrugged. "Eh. Not really. The company has these little trailers that they stick three or four guys at a time in. They're only ten or fifteen minutes away from the main office, so I usually just went in early and caught a ride from there with one of the year-round workers."

"How was it, living _Gazhikanes_?"

Dick laughed. "I might have been living _with_ the non-Roma, dad, but that doesn't mean I was living _like _them." He thought hard for a moment. "...They watch a _lot_ of television. I watched some with them, but they're so riveted to it. One of the guys in my trailer never even used his bed. He fell asleep watching his shows every single night."

"_Chaches_?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Yeah. It's _dilo_, right? Anyway...I dunno," he shrugged. "I missed being here. I missed the quiet. The city...I never realized how loud a city is to sleep in."

"There's a reason we always camp on the edge, darling," Mary smiled. "The quiet, and because city councils don't tend to like it when elephants go marching down Main Street."

"Now _that's_ crazy," Dick grinned. "Who doesn't like elephants?"

"Ahh..." Leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head, John smirked at his offspring. "So after six weeks, where's your _piramni? _You must have had at least one. You should have brought her home with you."

"Oh, John, really," Mary laughed.

"I didn't get a girlfriend while I was in town, dad," Dick chuckled.

"Why not?! All the _Gazhi_ love a _Rrom; _ask your mother."

"He doesn't have to get a girlfriend until he wants to," Mary defended her child good-naturedly. "And when you do, Dicky, it doesn't matter to us if she's Romani or not."

"Either way, I don't want a _piramni_ until I finish school," he said firmly. "I'm only twenty. There's time."

"Yes there is," his mother nodded. "...Did you make enough for what you want to do? We might be able to take a little from our savings if not."

"Don't touch your savings just so I can take online classes," Dick frowned. "I made enough to get a cheap computer and pay for a couple of courses. It's good enough for a start."

"These _buki_ classes...I don't know why you need them," John objected. "Pop will give you the circus anyway."

"I just feel like I can be a better manager someday if I have some idea about how successful businesses are run, that's all. Maybe that way somebody else won't have to spend six weeks away from home when they want to try something extra, you know? Maybe that way we can all do a little better financially." Dick held his father's gaze for a long moment. "That's not an indictment of what we have now; it's just an attempt to make it greater."

"'Indictment'," John repeated. Shaking his head, he stood up and moved to stand behind Dick's chair. "You go out there and you come back to me talking like you mother did when I met her."

"Well, you still love her, so I figure I'm safe," Dick joked.

"I do still love her," the older man verified as he ruffled his son's hair. "And you. Now, _háide_; that _Gahzi_ I stole away so long ago made _mariki_, and I've been waiting all morning for it."

"Cake? Excellent. I'm right behind you."

* * *

><p>The rest of the morning passed blissfully. Mary's famous sponge cake made a perfect breakfast when topped with berries and eaten alongside fresh eggs, and Dick savored every bite. After six weeks of eating as cheaply as possible at food trucks and grocery store hot bars, he'd been aching for his mother's cooking. By the time she presented them with a plate of chocolate-dipped orange slices his head was buzzing with happiness. It had been nice to get away and be his own man for a while, but he was immensely glad to be home. This, he knew for absolute certain now, was where he belonged.<p>

Mary interrupted his idle thoughts by setting three small packages down before him. "Presents, sweetheart," she smiled. "Merry Christmas."

"Thanks," he replied, his lips curving to match hers. "I have things for you guys, too."

"Don't get up," she waved him back down into his chair. "You worked hard enough just to come back to us. I'll bring them."

Each item that Dick unwrapped had clearly been chosen with great care. First was a CD set from his father, the front of which bore a familiar face. "Is this _all_ of his songs?" he gaped as his eyes skipped down the track list.

"That's what it looked like to me. Every Django Reinhardt song ever recorded." John puffed up as he had over the chicken coop.

"You should have seen him checking the discs in the store," Mary shared. "So meticulous. He didn't want you to miss a single song."

"How many _Rrom_ made it big like Django?" her husband countered. "...It's important he hears all of him."

"It's great," Dick beamed. "I love it."

Next was a book from his mother. "That's the first time anyone's translated the original Grimm texts," she told him.

"So it's got all the stories with the 'too terrifying for small children' endings?"

"Yes."

"Wow..." He ran his hands along the smooth cover. Flipping it over to look at the back, he frowned. "...Did you buy this new?! There's no resale sticker like normal."

Mary blushed. "It just came out. I remember how much you loved those stories when you were little, and I didn't want you to have to wait another year for it to be available in the used stores. I had to scrimp a little, but that's all right."

"Aw, mom...thank you. I can't wait to read it." He wasn't sure he could remember the last time he'd had a brand-new book, and as he set it aside he made a mental note to take extra care with it.

Last was a gift from both of his parents. It was the largest of the three, and the heaviest as well. His fingers faltered as the paper fell away. "This...this is the textbook for one of the classes I wanted to take," he breathed.

"We know," John nodded.

"But...but this is _expensive_. Even used it was over fifty bucks. Mom..."

"Your father might purport not to understand why you want to take business classes, Dicky," Mary explained, "but that doesn't mean he doesn't support you." Reaching out, she covered both of his hands with her own. "We both do. You have to do what you think is best, and if this is so important to you that you went out and took a job in order to do it then we want to help."

Teary-eyed, Dick turned to John. "...Dad?"

John's pride-filled gaze scanned his face for a second. Before either of them could start to cry, though, he looked at his wife and rolled his eyes. "...'Purport'," he jested, and they all burst out laughing.

Once his parents had exclaimed over the small presents he'd brought them from the city, Dick gave out a long sigh. Christmas dinner was several hours away, and as much as he wanted to use the time until then to catch up he was suddenly exhausted. A mild throbbing was beginning just above his left temple, and he had the feeling that it would only intensify if he didn't do something about it. "Will either of you be hurt if I go take a nap?" he asked sheepishly. "I've just got a little headache, and I think I need to sleep it off for a bit."

"Of course we won't be upset, darling," Mary promised. "You rode a long way in a hurry this morning; you _should_ go take a nap. I'll wake you when dinner's ready."

"And then after that you can see the chickens," John suggested.

"You mean after that I can see the coop?" Dick teased.

"Isn't that what I said?" his father grinned back. "Go do what you need to do, _mo shav_. We'll see you when you're ready."

The miniscule second bedroom at the back of the house always felt foreign to him when he first stepped into it after spending time out in the world, and this time was no exception. He tumbled under the covers without hesitation anyway, knowing from experience that they would lull him to sleep before long. It worked as it always did, and he passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He didn't know how long he'd slept when he heard his name being called. His temple still hurt, which was odd; normally a nap chased away his headaches. Strange, too, was the voice speaking to him. His brain told him it was his father, but the tone was deeper and more serious than John's had ever been. It was an even further cry from Mary's soft lilt, and yet a hand was brushing his hair back from his forehead exactly the way she always did...

Utterly confused, he opened his eyes. The room was dusky, and for an instant he thought he'd overslept. His mother would be holding dinner for him, and now he'd have to wait until the next day to listen to his father ramble on about every detail of the new chicken coop. Aggravated with himself for having spent so much precious time in la-la-land, he tried to roll out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, kiddo," that foreign-yet-known voice spoke again. Strong hands held him down against a mattress that was thinner than the one he remembered falling asleep on. "Stay calm. Hush. You're all right. It's okay. Just relax, chum..."

That last word triggered all of his memories. Twelve years of his life clicked back into place, and he suddenly knew who was pinning him. "...Bruce?" He tried to turn his head to look, but his neck wouldn't cooperate and he was left staring at the shadowy ceiling.

"Hush, Dicky. Don't talk. You're okay, just...just don't talk. The doctors said you shouldn't push yourself yet."

"_Doctors_?!" What the hell did he need doctors for? His eyes grew hot. He knew now what had happened to that beautiful life he'd been living in until a minute ago, but he didn't want to believe it. How could something so perfect, so _real_, have never been?

"Shh, shhshhshh..." Fingers carefully brushed away the few tears that had spilled onto his cheeks. "They said you probably wouldn't remember. They also said not to tell you right off, but I know how you are so I'll ignore them.

"You were involved in a high-speed pursuit," the billionaire explained. "Your sergeant said you tried to pull someone over for a normal stop, but they took off. He headed for the East Bridge, trying to come and hide in Gotham most likely. It was rush hour, and he was speeding between cars...the dash camera video is chaos. You were right on his tail, but he misjudged his timing and slammed into the back of a tractor-trailer. You...you..." He trailed off, his voice thick.

"...I slammed into the back of him," Dick finished. His voice was hoarse and unrecognizable, but he wasn't sure whether that was due to heavy emotion or lack of use. "Was…was anyone else injured?"

"A couple of the people he side-swiped had minor injuries. You…you were the worst."

"What about-"

"_Stop_, Dick. You shouldn't be talking so much." Bruce sighed. "…Your criminal didn't make it."

"He _died_?!"

"…Yes. I'm sorry. He went under the back of the trailer; there was nothing the paramedics could do."

He closed his eyes again and wished the world away. Why couldn't he go back, back to where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt? Back to his parents, back to Florida, back to Christmas… Barring that, he begged, couldn't he at least go back to before his fight with Bruce, to before he'd been a cop with an invisible gash in his heart? He'd work boring, dusty construction forever if he could just go back to one of those other realities…

The fight, he winced. That god-awful, soul-rending fight they'd had over his future. What was Bruce even doing here, considering what had occurred between them, what had been said? "…So what, then?" Dick ground out, suddenly angry. "You're here to try and get me to quit my job? It won't work, Bruce." Something twinged in his chest, but he ignored it and pressed on. "As soon as I get out of this – ow – bed, I'm going right back to work."

"As soon as you get out of this bed, Dick, you're going to physical therapy for three or four months. Both of your legs are broken, and you've had a head injury besides. Anyway, that's…that's not why I'm here."

His ire drained away. "…Oh. Then why-"

"Stop talking. I shouldn't need to tell you that you have a punctured lung – I know you can feel it, even through the morphine."

"…Yeah." He'd thought that little pinch felt familiar.

"_Stop_!"

"Sorry!"

"Oh, you're impossible…"

"Like you."

"…Yeah, chum. Like…like me." A beat passed. "…I'm sorry, Dick. I'm so sorry. I've been sorry this whole time, and I just...I just couldn't tell you. I just _didn't _tell you. I knew I was being a damned idiot, but when they said you might not…might not wake up…"

Unable to stand the sound of the billionaire's half-stifled sobs of regret, Dick ventured a question. "How long have I been out?"

There was a sniffle. "Almost four days. It will be Christmas in a few hours. Dick, I-"

"Stop," he bade him. "…Just stop. It's okay."

"It's _not_. I never meant-"

"I know." Groping out, he found the other man's trembling hand and wrapped his bandaged fingers around it clumsily. "I don't care, Bruce. I just – _ow_ – want things to be the way they used to be. Okay?"

"Okay. Yes. Of course. I…I want that too."

"But I'm _not_ quitting my job," he made clear.

"…I know you're not, kiddo. You never quit. It's one of your best qualities. But Dick…listen…I know I was mad at you for picking something so dangerous as a profession…I know I didn't give you the support you deserved…but that never meant that I wasn't proud of you." His hand was turned over so that it lay beneath Bruce's warm, heavy paw. "…I've never _not_ been proud of you. Not for one moment."

"…Bruce?" Dick whispered.

"Yeah, chum?"

"I think that's the best Christmas present you've ever given me."

There was a rustling sound, and suddenly the man was leaning over him. The misery of the last four days was etched large on his face in the form of deep worry lines and reddened, puffy eyes. Dick felt a spike of guilt at having caused such hurt, but he knew he couldn't have helped it. Sooner or later, whether it be because he was patrolling as a member of the Bludhaven Police Department or as Nightwing, he was bound to get hurt, and every time Bruce would put on that same agonized look. It was simply inevitable.

Their foreheads met. "…It's nothing compared to what you got me, baby," Bruce moaned. "You woke up, and that's all I wanted. That's _everything_ I wanted."

"I know. I'm sorry…"

"Hush…"

They stayed like that, silently soaking one another in, for a long time. When Dick spoke, he did so in the same apologetic voice he had used at the end of his concussion dream. "…Will you hate me again if I go back to sleep for a little while?"

"I _never_ hated you, Dicky. Never. But if you need to go back to sleep, then do it. You need to rest so you can heal." A palm cupped his cheek. "…Just promise me you'll wake up again."

He hesitated. How hard would it be to do what was being asked of him if he closed his eyes only to find himself waking up for Christmas dinner with his parents? If he could choose between the life he might have had but for Tony Zucco and the life he had truly lived, where would he stay?

"…Dick?!"

"Sorry. I just…I don't know, wandered off for a minute." Opening his eyes, he found Bruce staring at him with a panicked expression. In that moment, his decision was made. If he never returned to the dream, or if he returned and then had to leave again, his long-dead parents would remain completely unaffected; if he never returned to wakefulness, though, it would crush the man leaning over him. Hadn't they put each other through enough already? "…I'll wake up," he said. "I promise."

"Okay. Then go to sleep, and I'll be right here when you wake up." A soft kiss landed just below his hairline. "I'll tell Alfred to bring a few presents with him when he comes over later. Maybe we can sit you up long enough to open them. It's something to look forward to."

"…Sounds good, dad. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, son. Sweet dreams."

Smiling, Dick closed his eyes once more and prayed for the smell of salt.

* * *

><p><strong>Romani vocabulary guide:<strong>

_**mo**_** _shav: _my son**

_**sar mai**_** _san:_ how are you?**

**_owêrish: _day before yesterday**

**_Krechúno: _Christmas**

**_Gahzikanes: _like the non-Roma  
><strong>

_**chaches: **_**really?****  
><strong>

_**dilo:**_** crazy, insane**

_**piramni: **_**girlfriend****  
><strong>

_**Gazhi:**_** non-Romani women**

_**Rrom:**_** Romani man**

_**buki:**_** business, economics**

_**_háide: _**_**let's go, hurry**

_**mariki:**_** cake****  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>As an additional note, the line 'everything was beautiful and nothing hurt' is a Kurt Vonnegut quote. Happy reading!<strong>


	20. An Exhibition of Love

"I'm going to state for the record," Dick announced from where he was leaning against the end of the staircase banister, "that this sucks."

Bruce sighed and pulled his gloves on. "I'm sorry, chum, but you can't come with me. It's an adults-only opening."

"But it's an exhibit on _Christmas_!"

"I know," he agreed. It _did_ seem rather counter-intuitive for the Gotham Museum of History to be opening such a show without any children present. Then again, who wanted to drag a kid out into the snow for an event that didn't start until nine-thirty? It was only eight now, and his twelve-year-old was already acting cranky; he could only imagine how even younger attendees might feel by ten or eleven. "But it's not my event. I didn't make the rules."

Dick's shoulders slumped. "...I know." He came forward then, stopping a few feet away and crossing his arms. "Could we at least go see it together this week? Please? I won't even miss any school, since winter break started day before yesterday."

"Next week," he promised, glancing at his watch. He needed to go soon if he wanted a decent parking spot, but he hated to leave knowing that his son felt left out. "I have meetings all day tomorrow and Tuesday, and it's going to be packed on Christmas Eve. We'll go next week." Noting the incredulous and mildly hurt look on Dick's face, he hesitated. "What's wrong?"

The boy just shook his head. "...Nothing. We'll just...go next week. _After_ Christmas." Turning away, he headed towards the stairs. "...I guess I'll see you in the morning, Bruce."

"Chum, what-"

The front door opened, letting in a blast of icy air that cut him off. Alfred entered and began to stamp the ice off of his boots. "The car is ready for you, sir," he shared. "I'm afraid it isn't the flashiest thing in the paddock, but at least it has four-wheel drive and remote start."

"Thanks," Bruce said hurriedly before swiveling back to the boy. "Anyway, Dick-" But Dick had taken advantage of Alfred's entrance to disappear. "...Damn it."

"Is there a problem, Master Wayne?"

"No, he's just upset that he can't come with me tonight."

"Ah. Well, Christmas _is_ his favorite holiday, as it is for most children. Perhaps you can take him later this week."

"I can't. I have meetings all day Monday and Tuesday, and _everyone_ is going to go see it on Wednesday. I told him we'd go next week, but he apparently didn't like that idea." He grimaced. "...Please tell me that there's more to the teenage years than stomping up the stairs and acting like nothing's good enough."

"I expect that there will be a great deal more than that in Master Dick's case, sir. But if I may...what on earth made you think he would want to go to a Christmas exhibit _after_ Christmas?"

It was a good point, but Bruce didn't have an answer to match. "It's the only time I can take him," he insisted.

The butler stared at him for moment, then gave a curt nod. "Then I suppose it will have to be good enough for him."

The billionaire thought he'd picked up a hint of disbelief in the older man's voice, but he didn't have time to inquire after it. "Well...see if you can explain it to him better, would you? I really need to go."

"I shall do my best. Have a pleasant evening."

"Yeah...you, too..." Feeling slightly chastened, he cast one more look up the stairs after his son. Then, unable to do anything more about the situation, he departed.

When he returned several hours later he found Alfred waxing the banister with rather more force than usual. "Didn't you just polish all of that for the Christmas Ball?" he asked with a frown.

"Yes, sir. I did."

Bruce paused with only half of his coat buttons undone. He knew the tone he was being addressed in all too well, having heard it from the time that he was very small. It was a rarity these days, and yet here it was tonight, making him shiver despite the wool on his back. "...Okay, Alfred. What did I do?"

"I think you know, Master Wayne."

His jaw dropped. "This isn't _seriously_ about the damn museum exhibit, is it?"

"No. It's about time and effort."

"Time and...what are you _talking_ about?!"

Alfred screwed the safety cap back onto its bottle with so much pressure that the loud resulting _clicks _made them both wince. Setting it down on a riser, he descended the stairs and approached. "...Master Wayne," he began, his speech even but brittle, "you need to think about what you are doing."

"What-?"

"That boy asks you for next to nothing," he steamrolled on, "and yet when he finally issues a request for something he truly desires, you can't even make an effort to comply."

"Alfred, I _can't_ take him this week!" Bruce exclaimed in exasperation. "What's wrong with next week?!"

"Where is the magic, exactly, in going to a holiday exhibit after the holiday has passed?" Alfred fired right back. "Honestly, sir, you were a child once; do you remember _nothing_ about the excitement this time of the year brings?"

"He's twelve, not two!"

"And he's also in love with Christmas, and you know it. Good lord, do you not realize that most people never fully outgrow the joy of this month? We adults may not be as candid about our feelings as children are, but we still feel it. Who do you think puts up Christmas lights and displays? The children? Who do you think put together the exhibit that he so desperately hopes you'll take him to see while his anticipation is at its highest? It was an adult – a group of them, more like – and if the show is any good at all it will be because they feel a real love for the topic they were working with!"

He stopped, his eyes blazing, his nostrils flaring. "...Fine, you have meetings this week," he went on after a moment. "But take him on Christmas Eve, then. Yes, it will be horribly crowded and the traffic will be terrible and you'll wait in line forever to buy him lunch, but that shouldn't _matter_, Bruce. If you focus on the absolute ecstasy you've brought to your son's face instead of on the inconveniences of the moment, it _won't_ matter. All you'll see is him, and the rest will melt away."

There was no argument that Bruce could offer to that that wouldn't sound impossibly selfish. Realizing as much, he gazed down at his shoes and thought back over the evening. "...It's not that I don't want to take him, Alfred," he said slowly. "I saw a lot of things tonight that I know he's going to love. This week is just-"

"This week is the only time to take him if you want to do it right, sir. Hearing about Christmas the week after it's come is just as uninteresting as hearing about it in July."

"It was supposed to open weeks ago. The exhibit, I mean."

"I know. I had to keep moving it around on your social calendar."

"...Right. Well..." He ran one hand back through his hair, stymied. Despite Alfred's cajoling, he desperately didn't want to go to the museum on Christmas Eve. Even putting the people and the lines aside, he generally preferred to stay home that day. Monday and Tuesday were both utterly full, though, and every single meeting was one that had been instigated by his company. To cancel for anything short of an emergency would be bad form.

"Let me see what I can do," he said helplessly. Maybe a solution would come to him while he slept; maybe all of his boardrooms would simultaneously catch fire in the morning and force a rescheduling. Both seemed equally unlikely to him, but he didn't have an answer and he couldn't take another minute of the butler's cool, expectant gaze. "I'll try, Alfred. I really will."

"I would appreciate that, Master Wayne. More importantly, Master Dick will appreciate it."

"Yeah, I...I know he will." Sensing that he could finally leave without incurring the butler's wrath, he moved past him and towards the stairs. "...Good night, Alfred."

"Good night, sir."

He slept poorly, plagued by uncertainty. Dick had been asleep when he'd peeked in on him, and while part of him was relieved that he wouldn't have to give him a definite answer tonight the rest of him was sorry he didn't get to at least tell him that he was going to try for this week. By the time he heard Alfred open the door in order to wake him for work he still had no solution. He showered, dressed, and ate in a miserable mood that was only made worse by the fact that he didn't get a good-morning hug from the pre-teen sleeping his break away. He supposed he couldn't blame him for not making his usual special effort to getup early and come down, but it still hurt.

His outlook was only made worse by the slush-plagued roads and the idiots who couldn't manage to drive on them properly. By the time he reached his office he was in a serious huff, and judging from the way his secretary balked when he stepped off the elevator it showed.

"Um...good morning, Mister Wayne," she greeted. "I have a message from your nine o'clock."

He paused halfway across his executive lobby. "...What's the message?"

"They apologize, but they need to cancel. Apparently the weather system that's giving us all this wet snow and warmth is throwing a blizzard at them. They can't get out of town at all."

A tiny glimmer of hope dawned. "And my afternoon session?"

"I haven't heard from them, so I assume it's still on. I'll let you know right away if they call, though."

"You do that. But you'll have to call my cell phone."

She blinked. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes. I have something else I have to attend to." Spinning around, he marched back to the elevator. "Send out a memo that everyone who wants to can leave at lunch. I know there are a few people who probably have afternoon meetings, but I'd rather not keep everyone here until the roads are starting to ice over again. Tell them they'll still get paid. If my afternoon cancels, just call me and then go," he added. "I don't care what time it is. And make sure you tell Lucius what's going on with the afternoon, too."

"I will, Mister Wayne. And thank you!" she called just before the doors closed her out.

As soon as he was alone a beaming smirk appeared on his face. "...Alfred," he spoke into his phone as he dropped back down into the parking garage.

"Master Wayne? Is everything all right? You haven't been involved in an accident, have you?"

"No. I'm at the office. But not for long. Listen, get Dick out of bed and bring him to meet me at the museum."

"He's awake already, sir. He came down shortly after you departed."

Bruce flinched. If that was the case, then Dick had most likely _chosen_ to not wish him a good day rather than merely slept in. _I'm sorry, chum_, he thought. _I didn't know it meant that much to you. But I'm going to fix it._ "Good," he forced out. "Then get him down here. I still have an afternoon meeting scheduled, and I want him to have plenty of time."

"Very well, sir. We'll be on our way shortly."

"Okay. Good. See you soon."

Thanks to the numerous collisions that had slowed the traffic downtown to a veritable crawl Bruce didn't have long to wait by the time he reached the museum. The place looked abandoned from the outside, and a bolt of concern went through him. It would be his kind of luck to have gotten the time to bring Dick to the exhibit only for it to be closed because of the weather. Fretting, he climbed the stairs and tried the door. To his relief, it opened. "Excuse me," he spoke to the guard at the desk. "You're still open, aren't you?"

"We're supposed to close at noon because of the roads, but we're open for now," she replied. "It's a good day to come, too; there's hardly anyone here."

"Great. I'll be back shortly, then."

A car he recognized as his own pulled up to the curb as he went back down the steps. Dick climbed out of the backseat, then leaned in again to speak to Alfred. He turned around just as Bruce reached the sidewalk, and the billionaire knew instantly that his transgression of the night before had been forgiven. "Hi!" a happy squeal sounded as the boy threw himself at him. "Alfred told me. I'm so excited!"

"I know you are. Me, too." How many times during the previous evening had he caught himself looking at a certain part of the exhibit and thinking 'Dick will love that'? It was at least a dozen, he decided. "Let's go. We only have a couple of hours, and it's a big exhibit."

"Yessss!"

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. The early hour and the inclement conditions in town had left the museum sparsely populated, and there were often moments when Bruce looked up to discover that they were alone in a gallery. Dick, he knew, didn't notice; he was far too entranced by what he was actually here to see, just as Alfred had said he would be.

They moved through the history of Christmas, stopping to read about its evolution from different holidays celebrated by diverse peoples into the cultural cornerstone they were familiar with. In the Hall of Trees Dick insisted on circling all of the displays, which ranged from a fake-candled example of early Scandinavian décor to a tongue-in-cheek 'Tree of the Future' featuring a metallic conifer sitting in what appeared to be a spaceship's control room. After that came the section on seasonal traditions around the world, with its dozen life-size dioramas showing Christmas as it was celebrated in other countries. They had just moved on to the rooms labeled 'Christmas in Pop Culture' when Bruce felt his pocket vibrate. "...I'll be right back, chum," he said.

"'Kay," Dick answered without looking away from an elaborate miniaturized North Pole.

"...Mister Wayne?" his secretary's voice met his ear.

"Did they cancel?" he asked immediately.

"Yes. They said the roads are supposed to get worse and they don't want to risk it."

"Fine. Once you've let Lucius know, send out another email. Everyone leaves now," he ruled.

"The whole company?"

"The whole company." He glanced back to where his son was standing, his face alight with happiness. "...In fact, tell them to take tomorrow off, too, and cancel my meetings for then. Better safe than sorry, and I can't imagine anyone objecting to an extra day with their families at Christmas." The companies with which he was supposed to meet on Tuesday were Gotham-based; they would be just as eager for a cancellation as he was, given the conditions.

"Oh, Mister Wayne...did anyone ever tell you that you have a heart of gold?"

He laughed. "...No. But thank you."

"Well, you do. And I'll get the word out. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Merry Christmas." Hanging up, he rejoined Dick. "...Hey, kiddo."

"Hey. This is _amazing_." A tousled head leaned against his arm. "I'm so glad we got to come together."

Bruce wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Me, too. But we have to go soon."

"...Your meeting?"

"No. The museum is closing early because of the weather. In fact," he said as a guard came into view at the end of the room and headed towards them, "I think this person is coming to kick us out."

"Oh..."

That was indeed why the guard had come. When she'd departed to search out any other visitors, Bruce went on. "If the weather's better tomorrow, though, we can come back. There's still another two sections you haven't seen yet."

"But...what about your meetings? You said you had them tomorrow, too."

"I canceled them. In fact," he squeezed him closer, "I canceled work entirely tomorrow, and for the rest of the day today."

Dick gaped up at him. "...You mean you have four whole days off in a row?" he whispered.

"I do."

"And we can spend them together?"

"You bet we can. Now let's go; Alfred will be waiting."

"Are you going to ride home with us? It's probably safer, you know. I mean, you're a good driver, but Alfred has, like, a sixth sense for avoiding accidents."

Bruce laughed for the second time in as many minutes. "I'll take the car I brought in back to the parking garage, and I'll ride with you from there. Sound good?"

"Sounds _great_. But Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"If they have this exhibit again next year, do you think we could come with a whole day to spend? Like..." Dick lowered his head as if he knew that what he was about to ask for would be met with a negative answer. "...Like do you think you could take a day off of work? Please?"

A sudden wave of wonder washed over Bruce. _I nearly missed this moment,_ he thought. _I nearly missed this __day._ The quiet, eager way his son had moved through the exhibit, glowing with happiness, flashed behind his eyes. As if that vision wasn't enough, he was being given a chance to repeat it. His boy – his almost-a-teenager boy – was asking to schedule time with him a year in advance. It was marvelous. It was _wrong,_ because Dick shouldn't have needed to request a penciling-in twelve months ahead of time just to get a day of quality time, but it was still marvelous, and incredibly flattering.

Overwhelmed, Bruce pulled him into a tight hug and made a promise. "When we get home, chum, we're going to go into my study. When we get there, we're going to pull up next year's calendar and you're going to pick a day. Whatever day that is, Dick, I'm going to take off, and we can do whatever you want. Okay?"

"Okay. That sounds awesome."

It sounded pretty awesome to Bruce, too.


	21. Clark's Christmases, Part 1

The worst thing about Christmas, Clark thought as he lay on his couch and listened to the children in the apartment above him scream and stomp with delight, was how much he had once loved it.

He couldn't remember for certain if he had ever been as excited about Santa and presents and eating far too much candy as the little ones upstairs had been earlier in the day. All he knew was that the holidays he did recall spending on the farm had been warm, joyful affairs. His little family's love had saturated every moment of the day, from the thick, fluffy breakfast pancakes to the last happy 'goodnight'. They had been simple affairs, filled more with jokes and gentleness than with flashy gifts and expensive foods, but they had been good.

They had been so good, in fact, that they'd set the bar for future Christmases impossibly high. Now he couldn't stand to watch the holiday movies on TV because they weren't the same without his father's commentary. He could barely walk by a decorated tree without imagining what his mother, who had had a talent for putting together such things, might have said about it. Ice skating rinks, winter gourds, rosy-cheeked children and men with thick whiskers all taunted him with flashes of the home he had once known. Not one December since his parents' deaths had managed to be anything more than bittersweet, and he hated it. Mild seasonal depression wasn't what they would have wanted for him, but he didn't know how to treat it.

Lois' constant refrain was that he just needed to get out and enjoy himself. He had tried once, joining her and a group of others from the newspaper for something called Santa-Con. Everyone had worn red – Bob from the sports section had donned a full Santa suit, he recalled – and they had bar hopped through the evening, growing steadily more intoxicated and less inhibited. Everyone had been surprised that boring old Clark had come along, but no one was shocked when he left early and then didn't join in the following year. He supposed it was one way of celebrating Christmas, but it wasn't his way. Besides, faking an ever-evolving level of drunkenness was no easy task, especially when he was supposed to be too tipsy to fend off Lois' attempts to sit on his lap and tell him what she wanted him to put in her stocking. There were far better ways for him to spend his time.

He didn't want the noisy, fake camaraderie that so many people of his age seemed content with, but being alone wasn't the answer either. All he wanted was to spend a quiet few hours with good people whose company he enjoyed. It didn't seem like so much to ask, and yet he'd be damned if he could figure out how to actually do it. His few civilian friends all had their own traditions to uphold, as did several other members of the JLA. A couple of them wouldn't be doing anything tonight, but that included celebrating the holiday. Since he didn't want to ignore Christmas altogether, they were off the list, too.

There was really only one option that had any chance of turning out to be what he was looking for, but he wasn't sure that he dared attempt it. It had been Alfred who had invited him to stop by for Christmas dinner, after all, not Bruce. Somehow, Clark smirked at the ceiling, he didn't think the billionaire had been informed of the offer prior to it being made. If that was the case, he wasn't likely to receive the world's warmest welcome were he to show up at Wayne Manor just as the first course was being served. And yet, he was tempted. Who could understand better than Bruce the way holidays spent without those who had once made them special were both sacred and profane? It was a cruel thought, he knew, but an honest one. Besides, even if the other man was an absolute pill he would at least get a solid Alfred-cooked holiday meal out of the visit, and that was nothing to scoff at. It was certainly better than the platter of nothing he'd have if he stayed home and moped all evening.

Having convinced himself, he rolled off of the couch and stood up. An upgrade in wardrobe was required for a dinner at Bruce's, so he swapped the gym clothes he'd worn all day for a pair of slacks and a collared shirt. The whole outfit would have to come off again before he could fly to Mount Justice in order to use the Zeta tube, but he was so practiced with quick costume changes that the skill might as well have been counted amongst his superpowers. Suitably attired and already feeling better, he shut off the lights and headed out.

Fifteen minutes later the Batcave materialized before him. Spotting Bruce hunched over a file, he frowned. "You're working today?" he asked as he approached.

"Crime doesn't care if it's a holiday, Clark."

"I know, I just figured you'd be...you know...upstairs. With Alfred."

"Alfred's cooking."

"Okay, but I can't imagine that he banned you from the kitchen."

The corner of the billionaire's mouth that Clark could see twitched unhappily. "I don't want to get in his way. It would only delay dinner. Which is what I assume you've come for, since you have time to question my work habits?"

"I thought I'd take advantage of the invitation to come by, yeah. Do you mind?"

"Mm. You're here, either way."

This wasn't turning out to be the greeting he'd hoped for, but it was about what he'd expected. Before he could come up with a response for Bruce's grudging acceptance of his presence, Alfred appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Ah, Mister Kent!" the butler exclaimed. "How lovely to see you. You have excellent timing; I've just finished preparing dinner."

"I'm not too late, am I? I don't want you to have to scramble on my behalf."

"Not at all. I made an extra steak in the hopes that you would show. If you're at a stopping point, Master Wayne...?"

Bruce sighed and closed his folder. "Yeah. I lost my place when the Zeta went off, anyway."

"Sorry," Clark apologized. "It was just more convenient than the train, especially today."

"Mm."

"Well, then, if the pair of you would like to lead the way," Alfred suggested. His tone was full of professional cheer, but Clark didn't miss the warning look he shot at his charge as they walked by. _Be nice_, he interpreted it. _It's Christmas, and you have a guest._ He could only imagine the grimace that must have replied.

Nevertheless, Bruce was slightly less catty than normal during the soup course. When he did finally make a somewhat rude observation, he did so with more of a reluctant curiosity than an intent to wound. "For someone who has no biological need to eat, you throw back Alfred's food pretty fast."

"Alfred's food is amazing," Clark parried. "Normally I only eat to keep up appearances, you know, but here...here I eat because it's a pleasure." As if to prove his point, the butler carried in two aromatic plates of filet mignon at that very moment. "...Case in point," he joked as one was set down before him.

"You prefer your steak a bit rarer than Master Wayne if I recall correctly, Mister Kent?" Alfred inquired.

"I do. This looks perfect," he complimented. As he took in the way the bacon wrapped around the edge of the beef had browned perfectly, he let out a happy sigh. This was a far cry from the ham, potatoes, and green beans that had made up his childhood Christmas dinners, but there was no way he was going to complain.

"Very good. And I've butterflied yours as usual, sir," Alfred went on as he set down Bruce's plate. "It's cooked thoroughly." He stepped back. "...I selected a wine for this course, but I wonder if you might prefer Scotch?"

The billionaire didn't hesitate. "Yes. Clark will have it too."

"...Mister Kent? Is that acceptable?"

"I've never really been a big drinker," he confessed. "It doesn't do much for me."

"You want. The Scotch," Bruce informed him flatly. "I'm not suggesting it to try and get you drunk, I'm suggesting it because the steak's better that way. If you want the maximum pleasure out of the meal," he arched an eyebrow, "you'll take my advice."

"...Scotch it is," Clark gave in.

To his surprise, the beverage didn't repel him the way he'd thought it might. Bruce had been completely right; the steak, already tender and flavorful enough to make angels cry, went up another notch when it was combined with the heady smoke and hints of caramel swirling in his glass. Alcohol had no physical effect on him whatsoever, but by the time dessert came out he was feeling mellow anyway. Bruce seemed a bit looser, too, which he took as a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, he wouldn't be chased out of the house as soon as dinner was over and Alfred's back was turned.

His wish came true. As he set his napkin on the table top to be cleared away, Bruce nodded towards his empty tumbler. "I was right," he stated.

"You were," Clark admitted. "It wasn't what I was expecting at all, but I liked it."

The billionaire stared at him for the space of a long breath. His expression was blank, making it impossible to tell whether he was preparing to attack, measuring his dining companion for some other reason, or doing something else entirely. When he finally spoke it was to offer the last words the Kryptonian would have wagered on. "...Do you want more?"

It took him a second to respond, so caught off guard was he. "Um...yeah. If you don't mind, that is."

Bruce's brow knit briefly. Then he stood up and jerked his head towards the hallway. Without another word, Clark followed.

For a moment after they stepped into the next room he couldn't quite manage to breathe. The tree had caught his eye immediately, and for an instant his mother's voice had rung in his head. _'Oh, Clark, look,'_ she gasped. _'Isn't it lovely?'_ It _was_ lovely, done up in golds and greens that matched the rest of the room without blending in and becoming invisible. It was the sort of tree his mother would have decorated if she'd had unlimited funds, and seeing it drove a spike of longing into his heart.

"Here," Bruce spoke suddenly at his elbow. Pulled away from his reverie, he turned to find a fresh glass of amber liquid being held out to him.

"Thanks." Taking it, he sipped. Normally he was glad that alcohol had no effect on him, but tonight he wished it was capable of calming his nerves. Lacking that advantage, he tried to express how he felt without getting teary. "...That's a beautiful tree."

"Alfred did it." Bruce, too, took a drink. "...He said it looks like one my mother did once."

Clark was so unprepared for that weighty comment that he almost spilled his digestif. Covering up the near-faux-pas by lifting the tumbler to his lips again, he replied with a personal tidbit of his own. "...Mine always did our tree, too."

"Mm..."

The usually dismissive noise was more accepting than he had ever heard it before, and in that moment he decided that he liked the kinder, gentler Bruce Wayne that whiskey had wrought. When he was offered a chair in front of the fire a minute later, his opinion was settled. Get a couple of drinks and a good steak in him to soften him up and the billionaire wasn't half-bad company at all.

They sat before the flames for over an hour. Few words passed between them, but those that did weren't unkind. It was enough for Clark, who was beginning to think that he had finally found what he was looking for in a Christmas. Bruce's earlier attitude notwithstanding, he felt welcome, or at least more welcome than he'd ever felt before in this house. Good food, good drink, and – once plied with the first two items – good company were all his tonight, and he could barely believe it.

"...I should get ready for patrol," came eventually. The words marked the inevitable close to the evening, and Clark sighed.

"Yeah. I should probably give Metropolis a little attention. But are you sure you should go out? We had a fair bit of alcohol."

A beat passed with no reply, and he wondered if he'd gone too far by expressing concern for the other man's safety. Then the billionaire snorted, set his glass aside, and stood up. "You have no subtlety. I hope you know that."

"But driving-"

"I'm not an idiot, Clark. The car has autopilot. By the time I get ready and ride into town I'll be sober."

"...Oh." Mildly embarrassed – of course the Batmobile could drive itself, what had he been thinking? – he climbed to his feet. "Well, you can't blame a guy for checking, I suppose."

"I could. But I won't. Now let's go, it's getting late."

Alfred was sweeping when they entered the cave. "Going out on patrol, sir?" he directed at Bruce.

"Yeah. Is everything ready?"

"As usual, sir."

"Good." With that he disappeared towards the changing area, not bothering to say a word of farewell.

Alfred gazed after him for a second, then turned to Clark. "And you, Mister Kent?"

"...Guess I'd better be getting to that, too. You know how it is."

"I do indeed. The demands of justice notwithstanding, though, I hope you enjoyed yourself enough this evening to consent to join us next year?"

He stared after Bruce. "...Do you think he wants me to?"

"He'll never say it out loud, Mister Kent, but believe me when I tell you that he does. He's normally out the door for the city as soon as he's finished dessert; I've never known him to stay in and chat beside the fire. Please," he requested, "do come back next year. And in between as well, of course, but...particularly for Christmas dinner."

And there it was, that final piece that he'd been searching for. He was more than welcome; he was _wanted_. This might have been the first Christmas he'd spent at Wayne Manor, but Alfred's offer for next year cemented his coming as a tradition. "...Sure," he agreed. "I will. I'll come next year. Thanks, Alfred. I...I really appreciate it."

"Not at all, Mister Kent," the butler smiled gratefully. "I assure you, the appreciation is all mine. Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas," he wished back. "...Tell the grinch in the back I said the same to him, would you?"

"I will."

He left on that note. When he'd reached Metropolis, he landed atop the city's tallest building and examined his domain. Tomorrow the Christmas trees and lights and window displays that made his city extra bright tonight would begin to come down, destined to wait in attics and basements for the next eleven months. For the first time in several years, though, he wouldn't mind seeing them go. The old emptiness this season had once left him feeling had been filled by a burning brand of contentedness,and while it wasn't the same as the one he had carried as a child it was more than good enough.

Tomorrow the lights would come down, he mused with a smile, but next year there would still be space for him at Wayne Manor.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: A guest reviewer asked to see one of the Christmases with Clark that were described in an earlier chapter. I want to show Christmas at Wayne Manor through Clark's eyes in other situations as well - eg when Dick's there and young, and hence with each of the boys - but my plans for the rest of this year's stories are already laid out. What that means is that next year there will be at least one, possibly two, of these little peeks through Superman's POV. They will all be entitled 'Clark's Christmases', with the numbering of parts carrying from year to year as they come out. Hopefully you all enjoyed this one and will be as eager to read more as I am to write more.<strong>

**Happy reading, and happy solstice!**


	22. Charades

"...You two can't be on the same team this year," Damian informed Bruce and Dick flatly.

"Excuse me?" The billionaire arched an eyebrow.

"He's right, Bruce," Tim pitched in. "You two can practically read one another's minds. Charades isn't fun for anyone else when you're working together."

"It _was_ a bit of a landslide victory for you last year, sirs," Alfred reminded. "It might be nice for the rest of the family to have a chance."

"Well I don't care whose team I'm on, so long as we're playing Christmas charades," Dick shrugged.

"Why don't you each captain a team?" the butler suggested. "Then you can't possibly end up allied."

"If we're doing it that way, then I call Tim," Bruce said immediately.

"I call Babs," Dick countered, draping his arm across his girlfriend's shoulders.

"Sap," Damian rolled his eyes.

Dick just grinned. "You'll understand some day, little brother."

"Fine. Alfred," Bruce selected.

"And that means I get Dami!"

"_Really_, Father? You're abandoning me to the Sap Squad?"

"Sweet! That's our team name. 'Sap Squad'. Good job, Dami; it makes us sound like we cut down Christmas trees for a living."

The boy slumped. "Ugh. Great." Looking utterly miserable, he trudged over to sit on the couch beside his cuddled-up teammates. "...You two had better not drool on me or anything."

"If we start drooling we won't be able to play charades very well," Barbara remarked.

"So we'll save it for later," Dick added. "The drooling, not the charades. Let's get those started."

"I assume this is played just like normal charades?" Barbara inquired.

"Right," Tim answered. "It's just that all the stuff you have to act out is Christmas-themed." A box appeared under his nose. "...And apparently I'm going first." Fishing a card out, he stood up and moved into the space that had been cleared in front of the couches. "Who has the timer?"

"I do, Master Tim. Whenever you're ready."

"Okay..." He glanced at his card. "Go!"

The hourglass was flipped, and Tim thrust three fingers into the air. "Three words," Bruce interpreted.

A nod, and then six more fingers popped up.

"Nine," said Alfred.

An elaborate sphere was outlined in the air behind Tim, and he pantomimed combing out long hair and putting on makeup. Then he raised his hands and began to spin in silent, steady circles, tossing his head about and giving a simpering smile all the while.

"Nine ladies dancing," Bruce judged.

"Bingo," Tim said, dropping his act. "That's five points for us."

"Being a lady suits you," Damian smirked. "Maybe you should try it on a more permanent basis."

"I rather just watch you fail at charades. Here." He shoved the box at his brother. "It's your turn to dance."

"Yay, Dami!" Dick cheered.

The boy shot him a look. "I haven't done anything yet."

"I know. I'm just excited. C'mon, pick a card!"

"...Ready, Master Damian?" Alfred inquired once he stood at the front of the room and had peeked at his card.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

"Two words," Dick and Barbara said together. Damian bent his wrists so that his fingers dangled below his chin.

"Cthulu," Tim joked.

"You know that's Dami's Santa," Dick chastised gently. "So, Santa?"

Damian managed to nod an affirmative and glare at Tim simultaneously. Then he raised his hands and rested them atop his head with the fingers still splayed.

"Santa's moose?" Dick wrinkled his nose. "I've never heard of Santa's moose."

"It's Santa's reindeer," Barbara corrected. "He's just giving them the wrong antlers, that's all."

"How do I know the difference between reindeer and moose?" Damian complained. "Seriously, Grayson. Santa's _moose_? It's a good thing Gordon's not an idiot, or we wouldn't have any points."

"Brains _and_ beauty," Dick grinned at the woman. "That's a potent combination."

"Keep your potency to yourself," Bruce said as he took a card and rose from his seat. "At least until after my turn."

"Go, sir," Alfred directed as he rotated the timer.

The billionaire indicated that he had long, pointed ears. "Mr. Spock?" Tim guessed. "...Wait, he has _nothing_ to do with Christmas..."

"Nice job, smart one," Damian scoffed.

"I believe that's supposed to indicate an elf, young sir. But good try."

In the end Bruce's card proved to have read 'The Elf on the Shelf'. Once that was settled and Tim had been sufficiently teased for guessing a Star Trek character, the box was passed to Dick. "Ooh," he let out as he read his assignment. "That's a toughie. Okay, Alfred, I'm ready."

"Go."

He held up three fingers, then dropped instantly to one knee, put on a hopeful, pleading look, and pretended to hold up a small box.

"Worst. Proposal. Ever," Damian said.

Dick shook his head. He proceeded to slip a non-existent ring onto an invisible finger, lift a transparent veil, and deliver a smooch to the air.

"Marry," Barbara said. "We've got that. What else?"

Her boyfriend's finger tapped against his chin as if was thinking. His other hand hovered above his head, curled in a fist, and then opened up suddenly.

"What does a lightbulb have to do with getting married?" Damian queried.

"Who wants to get married in the dark?" Tim joked.

"Shut up, Drake. It's not your turn."

"Maybe it's more abstract," Barbara pondered. "An idea? But that doesn't go with getting married, either..."

"And none of it goes with Christmas," her teammate griped. "What are you trying to say, Grayson? You want to marry an idea?"

Dick appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy. The lightbulb above his head flickered on and off, and when that continued to not yield results he began to gesture wildly at his cheerful green pullover. "Ugly sweater wedding?" Damian guessed.

"I don't think it's an ugly sweater," Barbara rebutted. "Although at least ugly sweaters are things people wear at Christmas."

"Time's up I'm afraid, Master Dick," Alfred said.

Dick let out the frustrated noise he'd been holding in for thirty seconds. "Gaaah! That card is _impossible_." His eyes slipped to where Bruce was sitting with a smug look on his face. "...You knew what it was all along, didn't you?"

"From the second that lightbulb popped on over your head."

"What was it?" Tim, Damian, and Barbara all queried.

"Merry and bright," the billionaire replied. Dick groaned and slumped to the carpet, nodding in defeat.

"'Merry and bright'?" Damian repeated, gaping. "How did you get that?!"

"Marry...merry," Barbara sighed. "I didn't even think about homonyms."

"And lightbulbs as well as Master Dick's jumper are bright," Alfred finished off. "...Goodness, that _is_ difficult."

"And _that_ is why the two of you aren't allowed to be on the same team any more," Tim stated. "No one should be able to get that card correct. I'm pretty sure it's in there just to tick people off."

"I believe that makes it my turn, yes?" the butler inquired. "Here's hoping for something a bit more manageable than what Master Dick drew..."

They went through their groups over and over again, making utter fools of themselves as they flapped and flailed around the room in an attempt to convey what was written on their cards. One team would pull ahead for a while only to be overtaken by a hot streak from the other side, and each reversal was met with higher and higher emotions. Despite the flip-flopping of the scores, they were tied as they went into what Bruce had declared would be the last round due to the fast-approaching patrol hour.

"Ah-hah," Alfred smiled as he read the penultimate card. "You may turn the timer, Master Tim." As soon as sand began to flow, he held up one finger to indicate that the answer was a single word.

"Oh, come _on_!" Damian exclaimed.

"Hush, Dami, it could still be really hard," Dick shushed him.

That one word, Alfred indicated next, had two syllables. The first one was easily indicated with a shake of his head – 'no'. It was the later half of the word that proved difficult, particularly since the butler's way of expressing it was to sit down on the floor with his legs out in front of him and indicate himself from head to toe.

"Nosit, no seat, nosat, nougat...Nougat?" Tim ventured. "...No. Um..."

"North? Your legs are pointing north," Bruce suggested."

"No, no, no...no..."

"Yes!" Damian's cheer broke through the thick atmosphere. "Time's up!"

"NOEL!" Bruce and Tim shouted at the same time. A beat passed as they turned to each other with disbelieving looks on their faces.

"Did we _really_ miss that by, like, half a second?" the younger asked.

"...Yes," the elder ground out. "Noel. Jesus."

Tim buried his face in his hands. "He was sitting in an 'L' shape. How did we not get that?!"

"We'll chalk it up to the fact that we've spent two hours playing this game," Alfred allowed as he stood up and dusted his spotless pants off. "No hard feelings. Besides, it could still end in a tie if Miss Barbara fails to adequately relay her topic."

"Not gonna happen," Dick said. Leaning forward, he rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Let's show 'em how it's done, pretty lady."

But Barbara blanched when she saw her card. "Oh, great," Damian complained.

"No, it's okay!" she assured. "It's...it's okay. I think we can do this. It's hard, but...I think we can do this." Her eyes met Dick's. "...Ready?"

"Flip it, Alfred!" he cried.

Two fingers went up, and then began pointing back over the boys' heads. They craned around to look. "Christmas tree?!"

Tim groaned.

But Barbara was shaking her head. Lifting her hands to his mouth, she indicated something spilling out.

"This card makes you want to vomit?" Tim jested.

"Shut up, Drake."

"It's a song," Dick guessed. "Well that's easy; 'Oh Christmas Tree'!"

"Too long," Bruce reminded him.

"Dang, you're right. It's only two words, isn't it? It's got to have something to do with the tree, though. Umm…"

Barbara was smiling and nodding even as she flew into a new set of gestures. Indicating a pair of horns on her head, she sang a silent opera. Then she appeared to pick something up and fill it from a tap before toasting wildly and swilling down the beverage. She repeated those motions over and over again, her expression growing desperate as the level of sand in the top of the hourglass grew low.

"Five seconds," Alfred warned.

"Come _on_!" Damian pleaded.

"Four," Tim began to count down.

"Christmas tree…song…" Dick muttered.

"Three."

"Shut _up_, Drake!"

Tim narrowed his eyes at the youngest member of the group. "…Two."

"Horns…opera…drinks…wait…_beer_?" Dick's eyes widened. "It's German. A German Christmas tree song."

"One!"

"It's 'O Tannenbaum'!"

"YES!" Barbara shrieked joyfully as a collective groan rose from the other team. "It's 'O Tannenbaum'! You got it! Oh, that was the best game of charades I've ever played…" It took her a bare second after that to land on her boyfriend's lap and pull him down into a triumphant kiss. When they broke out of it, Dick grinned at Damian.

"Sorry for the display, little brother," he apologized jokingly.

But Damian just smiled back, victory writ large in his eyes. "Grayson," he said permissively, "considering what you just did, I'll even let you kiss her a second time without any complaint."

"What a prize! Excuse me for a minute," he addressed the losers. "I'll be right back." And then he dove into another round of lip-lock.

"…We have to win next year, guys," Tim pressed, looking tactfully away from his elder brother.

"Or at least make them take their celebration into another room if they beat us again," Bruce added.

"We'll simply have to practice between now and then," Alfred deemed.

"I hope you mean charades, not kissing," Tim said, blinking hard.

"Naturally, Master Tim."

"Next year," Bruce nodded. "Next year is ours."

"Good luck with that," Dick challenged as he came up for air again. "Maybe Babs and I will practice charades in the meantime, too."

"Hey!" Damian broke in. "What about me?!"

"You're too young to practice the charades he's talking about," Tim deadpanned.

"I meant _charades_ charades, Timmy."

"'Charades'," Tim repeated, drawing air quotes.

"You're a charade, Drake," the boy accused. "…But seriously, are we going to practice?"

"Relax, Dami," Dick soothed. "We'll practice. First we'll out-charade the rest of the family, then all of Gotham, and eventually the entire world. Sound good?"

Barbara laughed. "You'd make a terrible super villain, you know that?"

"Good thing I never aspired to be one of those, then, huh?"

"Yeah. I don't think I'm allowed to date them."

"In that case, I would definitely be changing careers."

"Speaking of careers and super villains," Bruce announced, "it's about that time."

"Oh! Oh, I've got this one!" Leaping up, Dick pranced into the center of the room and held up three fingers.

"Three words," Tim said obediently. "…Two syllables?" he added when one digit disappeared. "No? The number two, then?"

There was a nod. Then Dick flapped his arms and pretended to glide about. When he returned to his starting position he put both arms over his head and pretended to huddle beneath them.

"Two kabuki theaters?" Alfred suggested, looking puzzled.

"That…makes no sense," Damian frowned.

Only Bruce chuckled. "…To the Batcave," he explained.

The man cowering under his own limbs beamed. "Haha! He's got it! Charades are over; now, to the Batcave!"

"That's it; you're not allowed to play anymore. Punny charades are an instant ban," Tim said.

"Then _you're_ not allowed to play anymore," Damian countered.

"Then _you're-_"

"Everyone's playing again," the billionaire cut them off. "...But not right now. Right now we're listening to your brother."

"…Huh?" Damian wrinkled his nose.

"What do you mean?" Tim asked.

"I mean," Bruce smirked, "to the Batcave!"


	23. A Lifetime of Gifts

At approximately two in the morning Alfred looked up from his project and heaved a mighty sigh. Although he still had some fifty more gifts to wrap before the end of the next day, he'd knocked out a fair number tonight while his charges were all occupied with patrol. They sat in a shining pile on the work table behind him, and after he'd swept up the tail ends of ribbon and paper he turned to examine them. Each one was a tiny masterpiece, a labor of love that he didn't regret despite the fact that it would live a mere two days before being torn to shreds. He had poured his heart into choosing the items inside the packages, and now he had sacrificed his hands to disguise them. All was fair in love and Christmas.

Including, he winced, arthritis. He'd known he would have to pay for waiting until the last minute to wrap everything, but he hadn't had much choice. Under no circumstances would he ever bemoan Master Wayne coming home – returning to life, for all intents and purposes, even if he had never truly been dead – nor would he lament Master Tim's return soon after that, but the doubling of his work that had come with them had not been kind to his joints. It wasn't so bad in the summer and fall, but Gotham's wet, cold winters were beginning to wreak havoc on his dexterity, and overuse only made things worse. Some days even Dr. Thompkins' best pills weren't enough to calm the ache in his hands and knees. If the twinges he was feeling now were any indication, tomorrow would be one of those times.

But it couldn't be, he resolved. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, after all, and there was too much to be done. Besides the presents still left to be clothed and groomed and set out beneath the tree there was cocoa to be made and served – the cookies, thank goodness, were all baked – and a car to be driven for lights viewing. He couldn't allow himself to fail on any of those points, for the gifts had to be beautiful, the cocoa was a tradition, and the car would be carrying four of the most precious lives in the world. He simply _had_ to head off the cramping that was creeping up from his wrists, and quickly.

A cup of tea would do wonders, surely. He checked his watch hopefully. Yes, he had time; they wouldn't be home for another hour or so. He could have his tea and relax a bit before he plunged into the raucous tumult that tended to result when his charges came home from an evening of successful roof-running. Pleased, he took a back staircase that ended near his rooms, ducked into his study, and turned on the burner beneath his kettle.

In a few minutes he was sitting before his cold fireplace with his aching fingers wrapped around a cup. The liquid's heat seeped through the ceramic and into his skin, slowly loosening the tensed tissues underneath. He could already tell that a second serving was going to be required if he wanted his hands to be usable the next day, but that was alright; at least he'd caught things in time. While he was sure his family would have been gracious about helping him the next day if his upper extremities had frozen into useless claws, he hated the thought of taking away from their Christmas Eve pleasure with chores. Besides, he grimaced, needing assistance with something so simple as serving drinks made him feel incredibly old; he would much prefer to avoid the predicament altogether.

But he was hardly a spring chicken, a fact of which he was reminded as he gazed around his inner sanctum. Having just been occupied with gift wrapping, his brain began to isolate items that he had received on Christmases past. First, of course, was the large painting that hung above the hearth. Examining it now, his eyes crinkled curiously. What would its creator have thought about the changes that had occurred in her house since she'd been cut down some three and a half decades before, he wondered? For all that Wayne Manor looked the same on the outside as it had when its last mistress had sat down at the bottom of the front lawn in order to put it faithfully on canvas for her loyal butler, in spirit it was a different place. He thought she would have liked it, as he still liked the landscape she'd created for him. Affection remained in the house as much as it did in the painting, and that was what mattered.

His eyes fell next on the faded leather spine of a book. To the outside observer it would have appeared to be just like so many other of the tomes that lined the room from floor to ceiling, but to him it was special. The much-loved copy of _The Little Prince_ had been a gift from his mother in his youth, but that wasn't where its magic stemmed from. No, that was the result of many nights spent sitting alongside a very young and still-sweet Bruce, who had adored the story as a toddler despite there being no pictures for him to look at. How many times had they gone through the tale together, both before and after Alfred had been the only adult in the world the boy could rely on? Bruce didn't know it, but those bedtime chapters were one of the greatest treasures he had ever given the butler.

As the child had aged, of course, he'd stopped wanting tucked in. Around the same time he had conspired to get something under the tree without Alfred's knowledge, leading into a whole new era of Christmases. Most of those early offerings – ceramic ashtrays, knotted leather belts, and other things of the sort that young people often gave to their slightly puzzled guardians – were long gone, but one remained. Folded in their box atop his desk were the pieces to an exquisite antique chess set, one side carved in ebony, the other in real ivory. Considering it now, Alfred tried to remember the exact words that had accompanied the gift.

'It's not like you can't use the regular ones,' Bruce had said, 'but I thought you should have some nicer ones, too.' He had followed that up with a request to be taught how to play, making the present less altruistic than it had originally appeared to be, but that was no matter. They had spent dozens upon dozens of hours hunched over those pieces, pitting their minds and their wills against one another. Chess had proved an adequate substitute for a bedtime story, and Alfred had been grateful.

The set's only drawback hadn't been revealed for more than ten years, when he had realized that he couldn't use it to teach Master Dick the game for fear that the appearance of even long-ago harvested ivory would repel the sensitive and elephant-loving child. Christmas had changed once again with such an exuberant little boy in the house, for he brought with him a measure of the old merriment that the season had lost twenty years before. Alfred had almost forgotten what wonder on a child's face looked like until Dick reminded him .

It had soon come to light that reminding his elders what was best about Christmas was not the boy's only December-centric talent. His knack for giving useful but incredibly thoughtful gifts was amply demonstrated from the very beginning of his residence, but he went above and beyond during his fourth winter at the Manor. He had begged Bruce for permission to take wood shop at school that year, a proposition that had seemed to the billionaire to be a waste of time. Looking back on things, Alfred suspected that the boy had only gained his guardian's consent by sharing his plan with him. Once he'd been permitted to act, though, he hadn't strayed from his course. All through the fall semester he had worked on one grand project, occasionally calling on the help of his teacher but mostly relying on himself, and the end result had been admirable to say the least.

Remembering the shock he'd received upon opening up a package addressed to him from his younger charge only to find a set of extremely expensive Japanese chef's knives, Alfred chuckled. The blades had been purchased by Bruce, of course, but they had been Dick's idea. More important than the flawless steel that would go on to prepare thousands of meals had been the box they'd come in. It was well enough executed that at first glance it appeared to be professionally made; only a closer examination revealed the tiny imperfections that were to be expected in the handiwork of a twelve-year-old who'd never practiced wood inlaying until a few months earlier. Despite those – because of them, really – Alfred had fallen instantly in love with the handsome and well-polished storage container. His new knives had fit perfectly in it, and to this day the holder graced the kitchen counter.

Then, of course, there had been Jason. Although he had been more than welcome to utilize Bruce's money from day one of his residence in the Manor, Alfred had always gotten the sense that he wasn't really comfortable with spending in the way the rest of the family was. Receiving expensive gifts was one thing; giving them away was something else entirely. That being the case, during his first Christmas in his new home the previously penniless teen had given the one thing he had that was entirely his own; his time.

Alfred had already been baking for four hours when Jason had come down to the kitchen for breakfast. Out of school for the winter break, he had taken to sleeping in late and requiring breakfast after the others had already finished. On that particular day, though, he had cocked his head to the side and asked what was going on instead of just grumbling that he needed bacon. When the answer was Christmas cookies, he uttered the most extraordinary words that the butler had yet heard come from his mouth.

"...Want some help?"

The query had shocked him, but he had accepted the offer. To his surprise Jason had turned out to be much better at following written directions than he was about taking spoken ones, and before long they had an assembly line set up. With Jason mixing and blending the ingredients, both of them scooping the dough onto cookie sheets, and Alfred managing the cooking and cooling process, they flew through two dozen batches in the space of a day. They had been so involved in their task, in fact, that neither had noticed Dick's presence until he'd all but squealed.

"You're both _covered_ in batter. This is so adorable. I'm getting my camera."

Jason had balked, naturally, but gentle cajoling from his brother eventually convinced him to pose alongside an equally flour-smeared Alfred for a quick shot. They'd held a pan of fresh chocolate chip cookies between them to prove in future years that they hadn't just been having an ingredients fight, and – miracle of miracles – Jason had given an honest smile just before the shutter closed. Those cookies had long since been eaten, but the photo had never budged from its place on the butler's bookshelf. No matter what news he heard about the deeds of the most wayward of the Robins, he could always look at that captured moment and remember him as he had once been.

Blinking hard, he stood up and crossed back to the kettle. When his cup was mercifully warm once more he turned to reclaim his chair, then paused. Set into the wall on the opposite side of the room was his small television, which he rarely turned on but kept for those odd days when he was under the weather. In recent years it had gotten far more use than it was accustomed to, not because he'd been sick more often but because there was finally someone in the house who understood what he liked to watch. Master Tim – practical, introverted, dry-humored – was the closest to him in temperament of all of the boys, and it hadn't taken long for them to discover that they enjoyed the same sort of programming. Consequently it had become their habit to exchange seasons of shows at Christmas, which they would watch on their own and then report back to one another on.

It was funny, Alfred thought, how much joy he got out of that simple trade. First there was the excitement of picking something that he had seen but that the younger man had not, which was followed by the anticipation of finding a spare hour here or there in which to watch what he had given him. Next, of course, was the pleasure of the show itself. Finally, and perhaps best of all, came the intense feeling of belonging that accompanied their sharing of details and opinions when their respective viewings were complete. Those tête-à-têtes had given them dozens of private jokes that no one else in the house understood, and Alfred loved every one of them.

The only thing that was missing, he mused as he took the room in as a whole once more, was something meaningful from Master Damian. The boy had tried, he was sure, but as of yet none of his Christmas gifts had conveyed the same warmth as the ones that Alfred had considered tonight. Perhaps this year that would change; at thirteen, Damian had progressed enough in his maturity to begin noting the likes and dislikes of others for purposes other than torture. He would just have to wait and see what the day after tomorrow brought…

A knock at the door stopped him halfway to his chair. Frowning, he glanced at his watch and realized that more than an hour had passed since he'd come downstairs. Expecting to see Bruce or Dick on the other side of the portal, he began his apologies automatically. "My apologies for my absence-" Then he paused. "...Master Damian? Is everything all right?" The child had taken the time to change into civilian night clothes, but that didn't necessarily mean that there wasn't a problem. If one of the others had been hurt badly enough that they needed his assistance in the cave, and this close to Christmas...he could have kicked himself. Why, why hadn't he gone straight down after gift wrapping, and to hell with his crooked old fingers?

"Everything's fine," Damian informed him. "I came for...something else."

As glad as Alfred was to hear that there was no emergency, his youngest charge's uncertain tone was making him curious. "And what is that, young sir?"

"Um...well..." He glanced back down the hall as if he feared that someone might see him in conversation with the butler. "...It's this," he said quickly, whipping a package out from behind his back and thrusting it forward.

Momentarily stunned, Alfred stared at him. "A gift, Master Damian?" he guessed, taking in the fancy paper that had been crudely taped into place around a box.

"...Yeah. I was going to just chuck it under the tree, but..." He shuffled his feet. "...Grayson said you'd probably been wrapping stuff all night, and that was why you weren't downstairs when we got home. So I thought you might want...what's in there. I thought it might..." He trailed off as a bit of color fought its way into his cheeks. "Look, could you just open it?"

Normally he would have insisted that gifts wait until Christmas morning, but he'd never had one carried to his threshold in the dead of the night before. Deciding to give in, he nodded. "Of course." His hands were stiffening up again, making it a struggle to get the paper off, but once it went and he could see what he held he was stunned. "...Oh, my..."

"They're arthritis gloves," the boy informed him. His blush deepened. "They, uh…they heat up. I guess that's supposed to help or something."

"It does," Alfred murmured. "It helps a great deal, in fact. Master Damian…this is an extremely thoughtful gift. And to give it tonight, and for the reason that you stated…I must confess that I'm a bit overwhelmed. Thank you. But if I may ask…have I been terribly obvious these last few months?"

"No. I mean, a _little_, but…anyway, Grayson said it would be good if I tried to find one meaningful present for everyone this year. I saw those, and I thought…well, it made sense. So…yeah. That's all." Ducking his head, he turned as if to leave.

"Wait, please."

Damian swiveled back. "Yeah?"

Alfred observed him for a long moment. "…Would you be so kind as to help me with the packaging? I'm afraid it might prove difficult as things stand."

"Uh…I guess, yeah. Here, give it back to me."

A minute later Alfred was sliding his aching joints between compression fabric. Finding the tiny power button near the wrist, he pressed it. Low heat immediately began to flow across all of his most painful spots, dulling their cries to distant groans. "Mm," he winced as tight tissues began to release.

"Is it okay?"

The anxiousness in Damian's voice made the butler smile. "They're lovely, young sir," he assured him. "Absolutely what I needed after all the work of the season. You did very well in picking them out, and I really cannot thank you enough." A beat passed before Alfred put a cherry on top of the sundae of compliments he'd just offered. "…You seem to be well on your way to matching your eldest brother in skill at gift-giving."

The teen didn't stand a chance of hiding the glow that rose into his face at that. "Um…thanks," he choked out. "Nobody can match Grayson at picking out presents, but…it's kind of nice to be close."

"Yes, I've always envied his knack for knowing the perfect present myself."

"I never know what to get him. I mean, Father was relatively easy to find something for, and I even came up with a gift for Drake, but Grayson…" Damian sighed.

"He is one of those rare people, I believe, who would be truly happy just to have his family and an empty tree on Christmas morning," Alfred remarked.

"That's the problem! He's impossible!"

"…This is just a thought, Master Damian, but there _is_ one shopping day left before Christmas. If you would like, you and I could venture into town and make a last-ditch effort to cross his name off of your list." He had a hundred other things to do tomorrow, but none of them could possibly be as important as taking a few hours to possibly bond with the wiliest of his charges. Besides, all of those smaller tasks would be easier now that he had what he was already beginning to think of as his miracle gloves.

"...There was this one place I wanted to look at, but Father never had time to take me," Damian revealed. "I can't be in a car long enough with just Drake for _him_ to take me, and obviously I couldn't ask Grayson. So…if we could try there…"

"That sounds like an excellent idea, young sir. I look forward to it."

"Um…yeah. So…are we good, then?"

"Yes, young sir. We are very well, I believe."

A tiny smile appeared, then disappeared just as quickly as it had come. "Okay."

"Off to bed, are you?"

"Yeah. I guess I can't sleep in too much if we're going shopping for Grayson, right?"

"Quite right. The shops will be closing earlier than usual, and there are the normal Christmas Eve festivities besides. So I shall see you early, hmm?"

"Sure. Early." The miniature smile flashed by once more. "…See you later, Alfred."

"Good night, Master Damian. Sleep well."

When the child had gone and the door was shut between Alfred and world again, a broad grin broke across his face. As if it wasn't enough that his hands felt better than they had in hours – days, possibly – he was going to spend part of the next day in an interesting pursuit with the one Robin that he still occasionally felt was a stranger to him. "A meaningful Christmas gift," he murmured, curling his fingers experimentally and finding them somewhat limber. "…I'd say you hit that nail square on the head, my boy."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed this look at the sort of things that Alfred receives for Christmas. This story was in response to a request from 1booklover11; thank you!<strong>

**Tomorrow we'll start a big Christmas two-parter featuring Young Justice and the Joker (yes, I'm giving you the Joker for Christmas. Please don't hate me, LOL). Happy reading!**


	24. Slay Bells, Part 1

"You will _not_ go after him by yourself, young sir," Alfred said imperiously. "I'm sorry, but I absolutely forbid it. Don't argue," he ordered, holding up one hand before Dick could speak. "You know Master Wayne would agree with me if he were here."

"If he was here we wouldn't have this problem!" Dick stressed. "Auuuugh...why couldn't this have just waited until morning?!" Batman would be home in twelve hours, but for now he was away on a mission so secret that only Superman knew where he'd gone. Robin had been left to care for Gotham in the meantime, so naturally the Joker had chosen tonight to break out of Arkham and take over a mall full of last-minute shoppers.

The teen was torn. According to what the Commissioner had said on the phone no threats had been made against the hostages that were being held, but neither had any demands been issued. It was unlike the Joker to put things into motion and then just sit and wait, and Dick could only assume that he was trying to draw Batman to him for some dastardly reason. With innocent lives on the line there was no question that the clown had to be stopped as soon as possible, but Alfred was right that he couldn't do it alone. It would be incredibly foolhardy to go rushing out after the madman all by himself, and even if he succeeded in catching him without incurring any serious injuries Bruce's anger and disappointment would be terrible. The last thing he wanted for Christmas was a lecture, so he had to come up with something else.

There was only one solution he could think of. "...What if I have the team with me?" he ventured.

Alfred's mouth tightened. "Please don't take this as an insult to your team, Master Dick, but frankly I'd prefer that you call Superman. The Joker is not to be trifled with, as you are well aware, and to send six children after him on Christmas Eve...it's unconscionable, in my opinion. Perhaps a more senior member of the League can be spared for this task."

His shoulders slumped. "...But _I'm_ supposed to take care of the city," he murmured. Still, Alfred spoke for Bruce, and Bruce's word was law. "I'll call Superman," he gave in finally, lifting the phone's receiver for the second time in as many minutes. The line rang through to the Watchtower, and was picked up by the very person Dick needed to talk to. "Superman?" he asked, surprised. "...What are _you_ doing answering phones?"

"Robin?"

"Yeah."  
>"We're short-staffed. I've got people out all over the place on emergencies tonight." He paused. "...Don't tell me there's one in Gotham, too?"<p>

"It's the Joker. He's got hostages."

"Of course he does." A heavy sigh sounded. "Listen, Robin, do _not_ go after him by yourself."

"I'm not. That's why I called. But if you're short-staffed..." He glanced at Alfred. The butler grimaced, but gave a terse nod. "...Can you get the rest of Young Justice here? We can take care of it."

"...I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. But Robin?"

"Yeah?"

"_Be careful._" With that, the call ended.

A bare minute passed before the Zeta tube announced an arrival. "'Sup, bro?" Kid Flash asked once he'd zipped to Robin's side. "Superman says there's trouble?"

"Joker trouble," Dick answered. "...Guess I'd better put this on," he added, pressing his mask into place. "I was about to head out on patrol when the Commissioner called. Good thing, too, or I wouldn't have been ready."

"Is Batman on that super-secret mission thing?"

"He's on _a_ super-secret mission. Why?"

"Flash is, too."

"Oh."

"I think everybody's out on something," a new voice ventured. Artemis came around the corner and crossed her arms. "Where're the others?"

"Not here yet," Robin answered. Wincing, he turned to where he'd last seen Alfred. "Are you going to...oh." The butler didn't appear to have budged from his spot, but a spare mask had appeared on his face. Seeing it, the teen grinned. "Didn't know you had super speed, Agent A."

"It's nothing like that, Master Robin. Merely a knack for knowing when one's identity is best kept secret."

"When did _you_ get so zippy, Artie?" Kid Flash queried.

"Yeah, you were here fast," Robin agreed.

"...I was at the Mountain already."

"On Christmas Eve?" KF pressed.

Artemis just shrugged. "It's better than home sometimes, okay?"

"Yeah, but-"

Robin nudged him. "Dude, leave it."

"I...okay."

It took a quarter hour for the rest of the team to arrive. Robin spent the time pacing, aware that he was imitating his mentor but unable to do anything about it. Every time he tried to stop his feet seemed to develop a mind of their own, driving him back and forth across the concrete. Only when the others were gathered around him did he manage to come to a halt. "Okay, guys," he began, "I'm sorry to drag you all to Gotham tonight, but we've got a problem. The Joker's loose," – a vague flutter passed through the other teens as they exchanged glances – "and he's taken hostages at a mall. There's no one else available to deal with him, so...it's on us."

A beat passed. "...Is that all the information we have, Robin?" Kaldur inquired gently.

"Yeah..." He struggled not to blush. Why hadn't he asked for more details? Sure, his mind had been in a hundred different places, but he should have thought further ahead. "...The Commissioner didn't give me much when he called. But we can be there in twenty minutes if we take the Batplane, and then we'll know exactly what's going on. So...are you guys game?"

"Let's get that creepy aaa..." Catching himself, KF looked towards Agent A. "...That creepy jerk," he finished.

"I've never been in the Batplane," Artemis mused.

"Those poor hostages," M'gann frowned. "Let's go so that we can help them get back to their families."

Robin grinned. "Excellent. In that case...to the Batplane!"

* * *

><p>The flight was mostly a silent one. Once the initial excitement of having a mission to attend to had worn off everyone retreated into themselves, their faces pensive. Robin knew that they were all aware of what the Joker was capable of, having heard plenty of his horror stories, and he suddenly felt awful for bringing them into a confrontation with the psychopath. "...Hey, KF?"<p>

The redhead, who had stayed with him in the cockpit while everyone else took seats in the main cabin, looked over. "Huh?"

"You're not...you're not mad at me for this, are you?"

"_Huh_?! Mad at you for what?"

"For calling you guys out tonight."

"Dude, no way. What were you going to do, fight the Joker by yourself?"

"Well...I mean, I _could_ have-"

"_No,_ bro," the speedster cut him off. "That's totally not allowed. I don't want you going after that crackpot all alone. Are you crazy? You had to call for back-up, and who else were you going to call? We're your team, man. Backing each other up...it's what we do."

"Yeah..." Robin relaxed. He'd already known everything that Wally had just said, but it was still nice to hear the words. "Well...thanks."

"Sure. It'll be more fun this way, you know? Scary, but...fun. Oh, hey..." He straightened in his seat and pointed out the windshield. "Is that the place?"

Robin looked. "Yeah. That's it. The Shops at Westward Heights." He gulped. He'd never been nervous like this before, but combining the Joker and his team... _If anything bad happens,_ he thought, _it will be my fault. So...make sure nothing bad happens._

"Okay," he spoke into his radio. "We're going to land on the roof and work our way down from there. Stick together, watch your backs, and be careful. The Joker likes surprises, and trust me, you don't want to be on the receiving end of them. Is everyone ready?"

A chorus of affirmatives came back. "Awesome," he answered, hoping that his voice wasn't shaking. "...Then let's do this."

* * *

><p>"...It's so pretty," M'gann whispered once they'd descended into a deserted side hallway. Glittering snowflakes in white, blue, and purple hung from the ceiling, their colors complimenting the decorated trees that ran up the middle of the corridor. The overhead lights had been turned down, leaving only the tiny bulbs on the conifers and in the store window displays to guide them. Had the Joker had nothing to do with it, the effect would have been lovely; as things were, though, Robin couldn't agree with his team mate.<p>

"It's risky, is what it is. He'll have goons around..." He broke off as echoing footsteps reached his ears. The sound drew closer, and a beam suddenly appeared at the far end of the passageway. "Hide!"

They scattered, diving into the nearest shops in pairs. The footfalls grew louder and closer until Robin felt like they were right on top of him. A clatter and a curse sounded just as a glimmer of light shone through the doorway. There were two people, he realized with a jolt; they'd been walking in tandem, marching together down the hall until one of them had stumbled.

"What happened?" a voice asked.

"I fell over this fucking costume he made us wear. Where did he even _get_ nutcracker clothes, huh?"

"Hell if I know. It's just how he is. Just do what he says, keep your mouth shut, and you'll get paid, okay? Here...your lantern went out."

"That's another thing! Why we couldn't have flashlights? What good is it carrying around a lantern all night? And a _halberd?_ How am I supposed to fight off police with a halberd?!"

"Hey, now, I got that security guy good earlier. Practically took his head off. It's not a half-bad weapon once you get used to it."

Robin bit his lip. His plan had been to let the guards pass by unmolested in an attempt to keep the team's presence unknown. If people were dead, though, that changed everything. The man standing outside was a murderer by his own admission; he had to be apprehended, not let go.

"...Superboy," he breathed to the bulk that had slipped into the store behind him. "We need to get those two on the ground without giving them a chance to alert anyone. You're faster than I am, so you take the one further away from the door, okay?" He adjusted his legs so that he could launch straight into a sprint. "We'll go on my say."

"Fine. But I have a question."

"What is it?"

"What's a nutcracker?"

"It's...never mind now. You'll see in a second. Now, ready?"

"...Okay."

"_Go_!"

The closer goon didn't get more than "hey, wha-" out before Robin hit him at waist-height and knocked the wind out of him. Superboy's target wasn't given an opportunity to say anything at all before he was rendered unconscious. "Wait!" Robin said as the clone approached the wheezing figure that was sprawled out on the floor nearby. "We need one awake! Just take his radio off of him and prop him up against the wall for a sec."

Four shadows approached as Conner dragged their interrogatee into position. "Niiiice," KF complimented. "That's two nutcrackers in the bag, at least."

Superboy frowned as he picked up one of the guards' high, plumed hats and examined it. "This is part of a nutcracker?" he asked.

"Why are they dressed as nutcrackers?" Artemis puzzled. "There's no way they could fight like this. I mean, they're carrying _halberds_."

"Don't be so sure," Robin interjected grimly. He gestured at the man gasping against the wall. "That one said he almost decapitated someone from mall security earlier."

The team went still. "...He killed somebody with a halberd?" KF repeated.

"So he says." He turned to their prisoner. "...Did you?"

"...Heh..." There was no answer other than that, but the guard smirked.

Kaldur walked a few steps and picked up one of the dropped weapons. "...There's blood on the blade," he reported.

"Oh, that's awful," M'gann moaned.

"That's the Joker," Robin said. "He gives men halberds to fend off bullets, then laughs when they manage the feat. Two nutcrackers in the bag is nothing; we need to find the Mouse King."

"He's not...dressed...as a mouse," their captive, who was still trying to catch his breath, spat out.

"Then what's he dressed as?" KF challenged.

The guard's gaze slid to Robin. "...He said you'd come, you know," he said, appearing to ignore the question. "Said he wanted to make sure you still believe in magic." He shifted, his teeth glinting blue in the glow from the trees. "Just think how happy he's going to be when I bring him not one, but _six_ little children."

Robin stepped back and prepared to fight as the man threw himself forward. His preparations proved unnecessary, however, as both Kid Flash and Superboy literally beat him to the punch. Wally's fist collided with the goon's jaw first, making his eyes roll back in his head. A millisecond later Conner slammed into him, tackling him in mid-air and riding him to the ground. When the teen stood up again, he nudged the insensate man with his boot. "...I don't like nutcrackers," he ruled.

"They aren't all bad, at least in legend," Kaldur explained. "In fact, a nutcracker turns out to be a prince in the eponymous ballet that Robin referenced a moment ago."

"Does that have something to do with this?" Artemis asked. "...Robin? Is the Joker basing all of this off of _The Nutcracker_?"

"No," he shook his head. "At least I don't think so. The guard said the Joker's not dressed like the Mouse King, remember? Besides, I don't think he'd go that route. The Mouse King is already a baddie; there's no twist to things if he imitates him. It'll be something good, something happy, that he's bastardized."

Not wanting to take any chances, he knelt down to zip-tie the hands and feet of both goons. "Can you hide these guys back in one of these stores?" he asked Superboy. "Maybe put some tape over their mouths in case they wake up."

"I'll help," M'gann volunteered. "I've been practicing my gift wrapping this season. I've gotten good with tape."

"Great," Robin said before lapsing into thought. If he could just narrow down which of the hundred good things about Christmas the Joker might have chosen to ruin, they'd have something to go off of... His eyes narrowed. "...Hey, KF, what's that?"

"What's what?"

"By your feet." Closing the distance between them, he reached down and picked up a flyer.

"Looks like a mall map," Artemis said as she joined them. "They must have had these specially printed for Christmas. I doubt this hallway is normally called '34th Street'."

"It's not," Robin confirmed. "...But look at this." His finger landed in the middle of the floor plan.

"'The North Pole'?" KF read.

"Yeah..." He'd forgotten that the center courtyard of the Shops at Westward Heights was transformed into a replica of Santa's headquarters every December. Even though he had come to Gotham already knowing that Santa was a myth, he still liked to wander through the well-executed displays. There hadn't been time for that during the last two years, not between home and school and the team, but now that he'd been reminded of the mall's annual makeover something clicked into place. "Guys," he gasped. "I know what the Joker's doing."

"What is it?!"

"Where is he?!"

"He's...he's Santa Claus," he announced. "He's made himself into Santa Claus." Remembering what the guard had said about his being expected, he swallowed hard. _I'll just bet he's got a 'special' present for me, too,_ he thought. _Great._

"Santa Claus?" Superboy repeated as he emerged from a darkened doorway.

"Please, _please_ don't ask who Santa is," KF begged. "There's no way we have time to explain that."

"I know who Santa Claus is. He's a good man." Conner's lips turned down. "_Not_ someone like the Joker."

"No," Robin agreed. "Not someone like the Joker. But that's exactly why he would have chosen to be Santa; because he's nothing like him."

"So what's the next step?" Artemis asked.

"It's simple, really." He took a deep breath, unable to believe what he was about to say. "...We just have to infiltrate the North Pole, defeat the nutcrackers, tie up Santa, and call the police."

KF snorted. "That's 'simple', huh?"

"Yeah. Simple." It really would be, at least hypothetically; the North Pole never changed from year to year, and they had a map besides. They could do this, he told himself. They could take down the Joker and his minions and be home in time for Christmas morning. His face split into a confident grin. "Let's go do what every kid wants to do at Christmas."

"Capture Santa Claus?" Kaldur asked incredulously.

"Hey, _yeah_!" KF beamed. "I _did_ always want to do that when I was little. Epic!"

"I tried that one year," Artemis nodded. "I didn't get him, obviously, but...I'd kind of like to make up for that."

They started down the corridor once more. Kaldur brought up the rear, shaking his head as he walked. "A magical man brings you free gifts in exchange for your good behavior, and your first reaction is to try and capture him" He sighed. "...Human children really are strange in some ways..."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: My apologies for the late hour of this post. I've had hooligans pulling fire alarms on my property all day, so writing has been scattered at best. I will try to get tomorrow's post out earlier.<strong>

**Happy reading!**


	25. Slay Bells, Part 2

The North Pole was exactly as he'd remembered it, right down to the faux-frosted streetlamps and the piles of imitation snow lining the lane. A series of brightly colored sheds kept the people waiting in line to see Santa entertained with dioramas showing hard-working elves, carrot-munching reindeer, and a busily baking Mrs. Claus. Mall management had, in a stroke of utter genius, replaced the roofs of the huts with plexiglass, making it possible for shoppers on the upper floors to look down and see the whole operation from a different angle. It was thanks to that marketing ploy that Robin was able to identify their primary goal – the hostages – from two stories up. The question now, he thought as he wriggled carefully back towards the side hall where the others were waiting, was how to get them all out safely.

"What'd you see?" KF whispered eagerly.

"I found the hostages," he answered, tucking his night-vision monocular away in his belt. "He made them dress up like elves. They're pretend-working in the different shops, building toys, brushing reindeer, stuff like that."

"How many are there?" Kaldur queried.

"I saw twenty-four. He might have a few more in Santa's castle with him, though. The roof on that building isn't see-through, so I couldn't tell for sure. There are more nutcrackers, too; two in each building that has elves, plus at least four more patrolling the perimeter."

"I wonder why the hostages haven't tried to make a break for it," Artemis mused. "I mean, six or seven people could easily overwhelm two men with nothing but halberds."

"Yeeeah..." Robin grimaced. "About those halberds...it looks like only the ones outside the North Pole are carrying them. The guys inside have guns."

"Way to stick with a theme, Joker," KF rolled his eyes.

"There's sure to be more than that, too," Robin warned.

"Like what?" M'gann frowned.

"Like..." He hesitated. Having never chased the Joker through a winter wonderland before it was difficult to say for sure what the clown might have cooked up, but he could make a few educated guesses. "Like exploding ornaments," he supplied, "or poison candy canes. Or...or falling icicles made out of sharpened glass. Just...just keep your eyes open, okay? No matter how innocent something looks, you have to believe that it's deadly. That's the best way to survive one of his games; suspect _everything_."

"...You know," Artemis commented, "I always thought Batman went a little over the top with his whole not trusting anything he didn't make himself bit. But if he has to deal with the Joker all the time...well, I sort of get it now."

"Yeah," several more voices agreed.

Robin glanced at KF, who knew better than any of the other teens what dealing with the Joker entailed. The redhead gave him a weak smile. "We'll all be careful, Rob. Anyway, you're here to spot stuff that we wouldn't even think to look for, so...it's cool."

"...Well..."

Kid Flash's face hardened. "What do you mean, 'well'?!"

"You make it sound as if you won't be with us, Robin," Kaldur put in, looking as concerned as Wally did.

"Yeah," Artemis crossed her arms. "What's with that?"

Robin sighed. He'd come to the conclusion he was about to share with his team mates while he'd been lying on his belly and peering down through the railing, and he'd known then that they weren't going to like it. It was the only tactic he could think of that was likely to allow them to both free the hostages and capture the Joker, though, so he had to sell it well. "Do you remember what the guard said, about how I'm...expected?"

Glances were exchanged. "Yes," Kaldur said slowly.

"...You get where I'm going with this?"

"I believe that I do," the Atlantean nodded. "I don't like it, however."

"Well I _don't_ get it, but I already don't like it," KF put in. "You _can't_ go up against him by yourself, Rob! That's why we're here, remember?! We talked about this!"

"I _know_, KF, but someone has to get the hostages!" Robin exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low. "Look...there are innocent people in three, possibly four, separate buildings down there. The Joker doesn't know you're here; he thinks that at most he's going to be approached by Batman and I. If he knows that Batman hasn't been on patrol the last few nights – which he probably does, because he's got eyes everywhere - then he probably thinks I'm going to come by myself.

"But that works in our favor," he stressed. "If I slip into Santa's house and distract him, it will give you guys a chance to take out the nutcrackers and free the hostages. Those hostages are the only reason the police haven't stormed in, and he knows it, so if he realizes they've been rescued he's going to run. But if you can get them out of here quietly and then circle around and launch a sneak attack on the castle before he has a chance to call in all of the goons he has walking the halls, we can save a bunch of lives and nab the Joker too."

"So what, you're going to act as bait?!" KF hissed.

"It's not the first time," Robin rebutted. "And it's worked before."

"And you are certain it will work on him?" Kaldur asked gravely.

"Nothing's ever certain with the Joker, but...I think it's the best plan we have." He looked around. "Unless someone else has something?"

"There's got to be some other way," the speedster insisted. "We just need a little time to think..."

"There _is_ no more time, KF," Robin said apologetically. He knew how much his best friend hated plans like this one, but they had no choice. "The Joker's not a patient person, at least not once he's set one of his schemes in motion. Besides, he knows that Batman and I would have come running as soon as we heard what was going on; if one of us doesn't show up soon, he's going to figure out that something's up. We need the element of surprise, and right now we still have it. So let's _use_ it, huh?"

There was no more argument from the group. A round of hesitant nods conceded, with Wally being the last to agree. "...I hate this," he muttered.

"I know," Robin said. "...I'm sorry." With that, he stood up. "Let's get moving. The sooner we wrap this up the better."

"Heh," KF laughed hollowly. "'Wrap it up'. I get it. It's like a present for Batman, right?"

"A present for Gotham," the younger teen corrected him. "...And especially for all those innocent people downstairs."

"Yes! For them," M'gann said fervently.

"...Yeah." Sighing, Wally slung his arm across Robin's shoulders. "Merry freaking Christmas..."

* * *

><p>The first thing Robin saw when he had successfully infiltrated Santa's castle was the trio of elves standing at attention with their hands tied behind their backs and tears falling freely down their cheeks. A rope tethered each of them to a ceiling beam by their necks, explaining their distress. The teen felt anger rise in his stomach. Those people had done nothing to deserve what was happening to them, and yet there they were, trussed up to be hung by a psychopath in a St. Nick suit. To create mayhem and terror on any other day of the year was bad enough, but to scar Christmas was too much.<p>

A radio squawked somewhere in the shadows that lined the dusky room. "Oh-ho!" the Joker's disgustingly hearty voice rang out. "A pair of nutcrackers knocked down on level three. That can mean only one thing; a little Robin has come home to roost for Christmas." A spate of whistling sounded. "Come out, little Robin! Come out and play on Christmas Day!"

As if on cue, the antique clock above the false fireplace opposite the hostages chimed twelve times. A counter set into its face and labeled 'Days 'Til Christmas' turned from one to zero, and the Joker gave an exceptionally jingly laugh. "Come out and claim your stocking, little birdie! If you've been good all year you'll get a present, but if you've been bad...well, bad boys get a lump of coal shoved down their throats, don't they?" When several moments passed without an answer, he seemed to grow agitated. "...Bad boys include those who don't listen to their elders' instructions," the Joker snarled. "Get out here now, or I'll blow up your presents and the pretty bows on top of them."

Craning his neck to see around the tree camouflaging him, Robin realized what the madman was referring to. Each of the three elves was standing atop a large square box that had been gaily wrapped and beribboned. If there were explosives of any sort in those packages, the hostages wouldn't be able to escape. Without knowing for sure where his target was and what progress had been made by the rest of his team, he didn't dare launch an offensive. The best he could do for now was to comply. He bit his lip briefly, then set his jaw and stepped out into the middle of the room. "I'm here, Joker," he called out. "Now show yourself."

"What's that? Little birdie wants to see Santa? How _sweet_." The clown sauntered out then, wearing – as Robin had suspected he would be – a bright red suit with white fur trim. On his lanky frame the get-up made him look more like a pimp than like Father Christmas, but the teen supposed that may have been due to the hundreds of tiny silver bells that had been sewn onto every hem. "What do you think?" the Joker asked, turning around slowly before plopping down into Santa's gilded seat. Reaching up, he flicked one of the ornaments with a hoary finger. "There's one for every person I've ever killed," he explained lovingly. "I know; I counted them to be sure. I call them my slay bells."

Had there not been actual lost lives attached to the pun, Robin would have found it funny. As things were, though, it just made him sick. "What do you want, Joker?" he demanded.

"What do I _want_? Why, I want to teach the people of this city what _really_ matters about Christmas, of course! Tell me, did you see my industrious little elves as you came in? Don't they look delighted? You see, they've learned something tonight. They've learned that there are more important things in the world than rushing out at the last minute to buy cheap plastic crap for their families and friends. Don't you see what I've done here?" He spread his arms wide. "I've created a Christmas utopia! So long as you work hard and don't complain, you get the best gift of all – life. But if you _do_ balk or bitch, well..." His fingers flapped towards the pale, trembling elves against the wall. "...In that case, there's no place for you here."

He leaned forward. "So tell me, Robin; are you going to be a good boy and play by the rules? Or do I have to demonstrate what happens to bad little boys?"

All he had to do was buy time, he knew. If he could just hold out and keep the half-hung trio of shoppers alive until the rest of his team got here, everyone who deserved to go home for Christmas would get to. "...I'll play by the rules," he ground out.

"Perfect! Now scurry over to the fireplace and find your stocking. Hurry, hurry! It's Christmas morning, after all, and there are so many things for little birdies to do!"

He trudged over to the hearth and lifted the smaller of the two stockings that hung there. Knowing better than to stick his hand inside, he held it at arms' length and turned it upside down. A scrap of wrapping paper fluttered to the floor and lay there, shining obscenely up at him.

"It's a good thing that Batsy didn't show," the Joker remarked. "_His_ stocking is full of coal. Santa felt that it was high time his insides were as black as his outsides, tee-hee." Sobering, he narrowed his eyes at Robin. "Now, this is how Christmas at the North Pole works. You get one present," – he pointed to the gift wrap, then to the boxes beneath his captives – "for free. After you've picked the first one out we're going to play two games. If you win them you not only get to live but you _also_ get to pick another present. It's a very generous offer, really, although I don't think the elves would agree.

"In the event that you get all three presents, I'll give you a special fourth one. It's smaller than the others, but it really is the most important one of all. You see, if you get all the presents and put the pieces inside back together the right way, you'll get the _grand_ prize." He smiled broadly. "...Me."

"...You?" Robin verified. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

"Me. I'll take off my suit, give it back to its rightful owner, and allow myself to be led back to Arkham in handcuffs. You'll live, the rest of the elves will live...everybody wins if you just keep on being a good boy and play the game."

"The _rest_ of the elves? What about those three?"

The Joker's smile froze. "...Pick a present, Robin. Pick a present and play the game like a good boy, or I might change my mind about what I put into your stocking."

Three nutcrackers moved into position as the madman spoke, taking up spots behind the gift boxes. They bent down and picked up ropes, and suddenly Robin understood. Whatever present he picked would be yanked backwards, leaving the elf standing atop it to slowly strangle to death. "...No," he shook his head. "No. I don't want any presents from you, Joker."

"Oh? Well, that's fine then. You heard him," he called to the guards. "He doesn't want any presents. Go ahead and take them away."

"What? No!" Robin cried out as all three gifts were pulled out of reach of the people they'd been supporting. "Put them back! I'll play, I'll play!"

"Hmm...all right. I suppose I'll forgive your bullheadedness this one time." The boxes were shoved back beneath the elves, who stood gasping hoarsely for breath. "After all, you learned it from your father, and a certain amount of a child's behavior must be blamed on their parents. So, then...which one will you open first?"

"Let me open them all at the end," he proposed. It couldn't take the team much longer to complete their task outside, surely; he just needed a few more minutes. "If I win and get all three presents, the...bad elves...will still be punished. If I fail, you'll get to punish me instead. You win either way. See?"

The Joker sat back and seemed to consider his offer. "...Fine. We'll play for all the tinsel at once, then. For the first game-"

He broke off as several gunshots sounded outside. "...What was that?" he asked, his mouth turning down. "I said, _what was that_?!"

The nutcrackers kept their eyes firmly on the ropes in their hands and didn't answer.

"He's here, isn't he? Batman?" A snarl twisted the Joker's already ruined face. "_Is he here_?!" he screamed. "_Answer me!_"

"Yes!" Robin shouted back. "...Yes. He's here." There was no longer any way to hide the fact that someone else was in the North Pole, but he could keep his force's true strength a secret still. "He's freed all the hostages, and he's coming to get you next. There will be police coming in, too, now that they know most of the hostages are safe. You're done, Joker," he said, letting a wildcat grin slip across his features. "The only Christmas present you're getting this year is a straightjacket."

Another volley of shots sounded, and the teen could only hope that his friends were still safe. _C'mon, guys,_ he prayed silently. _He's going to flip in about half a second. Now I need __you__ to be the distraction..._

"Kill them!"

The boxes jerked back once more, leaving the elves to kick and struggle. Grimacing, Robin seized his knife and ran towards them, intent on cutting them down before a lack of oxygen could cause them serious harm. In his peripheral vision he saw the nutcrackers release their sidearms from the shining leather holsters at their waists, but before they could take aim at him the Joker let out a shriek.

"_No! The boy is mine!_"

A heavy weight crashed into him almost immediately following that proclamation. His head spun as he hit the wall and was pinned against it. A bony knee jabbed into his stomach, daring him to try and fight his way out of the hold. He tried to bring his knife around – a tiny slice in a non-lethal area would get the psychopath off of him long enough for him to break free, surely – but a violent twist to his wrist sent the blade flying. A hiss of pain escaped him as something popped in the base of his hand, and a wave of pain rushed down into his shoulder.

Fetid breath was blown into his face. "You fucked up, Robin," the Joker said. "You ruined it. You ruined Christmas. My first free Christmas in a dozen years, and you _ruined_ it!" He was slammed into the wall once more. "But guess what? I'm not going to stand for it. You don't want my surprise? Fine. I'll give it to Batsy when he comes along. And I'll give him another surprise, too; a little Robin in a tree. Well...more like a tree in a little Robin. Because you won't be hanging from it, birdie boy; you'll be impaled on- _aah!"_

Released without warning, Robin fell to his knees. A glance told him that Conner had the ersatz Santa handled, and he turned his attention to the rest of the room. During the few seconds that had passed since the Joker had tackled him the castle's interior had become a madhouse. A small army of nutcrackers was engaged in an intense melee with the rest of Young Justice, and while the latter appeared to be winning they were having to earn the victory. Visible above the fighters were the heads and shoulders of the three elves, whose desperate motions had slackened into weak twitches. "No!" he gasped. Turning his gaze to the floor, he searched for his knife. It hid amongst the glitter and the darkness, however, leaving him with no quick way to cut the ropes.

"Robin!" Artemis' panicked voice rang out above the din of battle. "_Duck_!"

He dove to the side just in time to keep from being skewered by a rod of ice. It stuck in the wood paneling of the wall, its shining surface smeared with blood from the hand of the nutcracker who had lobbed it at him. "Glass icicles," he murmured. "...It's scary how well I know you sometimes, Joker."

There was only one thing to do other than try to get the archer's attention and point out the strangling elves to her. Wrapping his good hand around the ornament that had nearly lodged itself in his chest, Robin pulled hard. His fingers slipped a millimeter along its length, and the razor-sharp edge overcame the protective layers of his glove. Ignoring the fresh slices in his skin, he tucked his new blade away, stood up, and zeroed in on his destination. There was no more time to waste; he had to cut the hostages down, and _now._

The short distance between him and his goal seemed ten times longer thanks to the war being waged around him. Weaving and dodging, he avoided two fists and the butt of a gun. Just as he caught a glimpse of a dangling pair of feet, a halberd blade slammed down in front of him. Had he been moving any faster he would have caught the steel with his skull; as it was, he nearly tripped over the handle. Speedy footwork let him use the thick pole as a springboard instead, and as he launched himself into the air he saw the murderous guard from the third floor diving for him. A kick to the man's face resulted in a satisfying _crunch, _and a second later he was clinging to the rope above the first elf's bowed and unmoving head.

He needed his good hand free in order to wield the ornament, so he swung his legs up and wrapped them around the beam. A clever flip let him land atop the girder just as a spray of bullets cut through the air he had occupied a moment before. "KF!" he hollered without knowing where the speedster was. "Catch these!" With that he stabbed the ornament down into the wrapped cordage and let the first hostage fall into the jostling chaos.

Without looking to see if Kid Flash had heard him and responded, he cut down the second elf, then the third. An explosion rocked the world without warning, forcing him to cling to his perch. "Explosive bulbs!" Kaldur's voice warned over the radio. "Watch out for falling trees!"

Several more _booms_ rumbled through the mall's center courtyard. Just as Robin caught his balance and prepared to leap back into the now-smoky fray, a miraculous call rang out.

"GCPD! Hands up! Hands up!"

Blue-shirted figures flooded the castle and began forcing the few remaining nutcrackers to the floor. As Robin watched, two officers pounced on the unconscious Joker, handcuffed him, and dragged him away. In the space of a minute the only people standing were members of the police and the rest of his team, who all began to pick their way towards him. "Did you get them, KF?" he called down anxiously.

"Yup," the speedster nodded. "Zip-zip, bro. They never even hit the ground."

"Awesome," he beamed.

"Too bad the police came when they did," Artemis opined. "If they'd given us another couple of minutes they wouldn't even have needed to cuff anybody."

"Yeah," Conner smirked. "They all would have been knocked out."

"Robin?" an adult voice cut through the hubbub. "Are you still here?"

"Over here, Commissioner!" Robin waved. Keeping his bad arm close against his body, he leaped down to the ground. "...Ow!"

"Rob?" KF was at his side instantly, a frown on his lips.

"It's okay. I think it's just a sprain." Sending the older boy a quick grin, he turned away and walked out to meet the approaching man. "...Were all of the hostages okay, Commissioner?"

"The last three are being treated for their injuries, but none of them seem to be in any danger." Gordon cast a look over the teenaged assembly standing a short distance behind Robin. "I have to admit, I was worried when you said Batman wasn't in town. But your team got the job done, and you put the Joker back in Arkham as well." He paused. "...Batman will be proud."

"Ah, well..." He blushed. "I was just doing my job. Besides, it was mostly the team that-"

"No," the Commissioner cut him off. "I'm sure your team was essential, but Batman will still be proud of _you_. Trust me; fathers know these things about each other." He glanced at the team once more. "You all had better get home and into bed. You've had a long night, and I'm sure you'll all want to have energy for when you wake up. After all...it's Christmas."

"Right..." Robin stared around at the once-beautiful rubble surrounding them. "Merry Christmas, Commissioner," he wished sincerely.

"Merry Christmas, Robin. You've certainly earned one."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: There will be an epilogue tomorrow, so stay with me for one more day! :D<strong>


	26. Slay Bells: Epilogue

When Robin awoke the next morning, he was in the wrong room. Bolting upright in bed, he realized belatedly that the space was his room at Mount Justice. But that made no sense; they'd all fallen asleep in the Batplane on the way back to the cave, and after that there was nothing. How, he frowned, had he gotten here?

Noticing the bandages wrapped around his injured wrist and fingers, he judged that there had been an adult involved in his migration. More confused than ever, he climbed out from beneath the covers and started towards the door. A quick glance in the mirror told him that he had a mask on above his pajamas, and with that reassurance he stuck his head into the hall.

A quizzical red-topped face was looking out of the portal opposite his own. "...How'd we get here?" KF queried when he saw Robin. "Oh, hey, how's your arm?"

"It's okay. Kind of hurts, but whatever. Other than that, I don't know. All I can think of is Agent A, but..." But why would Alfred move all of them to Mount Justice? He, at least, should have been in his bed at home...

A yawn sounded as another door opened. "...What's going on?" Artemis asked sleepily. "I thought it was just going to be Conner and I here today."

"We don't know," Robin explained. "Do you remember anything after we fell asleep in the plane?"

"Nope," she shook her head. "But...oh, hey, Kaldur."

The Atlantean had appeared at the end of the hall while they'd been speaking, and now he stood looking at them with an unusually excited expression on his face. "I'm glad you're all awake. You should proceed to the lounge."

"Where are Conner and M'gann, though?" Robin frowned. "Are they already down there?"

"No. They are both still in their rooms. But I'll get them." Kaldur waved them towards the lounge. "Go. There is a surprise."

The other three blinked at one another. "A surprise?" Artemis repeated.

"A Christmas surprise," KF grinned. "You _know_ that's going to be good. And...wait...I think I smell bacon! 'Scuse me." With that he vanished, leaving his door to close on its own.

"...Should we check it out?" Robin asked the girl.

"Might as well," she shrugged. "It can't be bad, right?"

"Not if Kaldur's smiling about it, no."

They both stopped cold on the threshold to the lounge. "...Whoa," Robin breathed. The gathering room had sported a decent enough tree and a few other holiday decorations the last time he'd seen it, but now it was decked from top to bottom with garlands and greenery. "This is _amazing_!"

"How...this wasn't like this last night!" Artemis exclaimed. "Who...what...?"

"We took a vote," Superman answered, "and decided that a party was a pretty good reward for saving Christmas."

"A party and presents," Flash pitched in. "It's not Christmas without presents."

"And food," KF added from where he sat behind a plate piled high with breakfast food and cookies. "...Lots and lots of...mmm...eggs..."

Staring around, Robin realized that all of the Young Justice mentors were present save Batman. "You did this all in one night?" he asked, trying to ignore his disappointment. "Wait...how long did we sleep?!"

"About twelve hours," a familiar gravelly tone answered from behind him. "...Long enough for Agent A to coordinate all of this. He'll be back with the last load of supplies shortly."

Robin spun around, joy flooding him. He wanted to throw himself at his mentor, whom he'd missed for days, but he restrained himself out of respect for Batman's sense of public propriety. "You're back," he grinned instead.

"I am. A little late, from the sound of things. But it seems that you handled things without me, so..."

There was a hint of melancholy in that trailing sentence, and Robin made a mental note to address it in private later on. At the moment, though, there was a party to attend. "Sure we did. And now we're going to celebrate." Grabbing hold of a night-black gauntlet, he tugged the man into the room with him. "C'mon, Batman," he urged. "Everyone's here and the Joker's in jail. If those aren't the makings of a perfect Christmas, then I don't know what is."

* * *

><p>When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, all of the presents had been torn into, and the story of the Joker's downfall had been told at least a half dozen times, the party began to break up. Robin was having so much fun that he was tempted to ask permission to spend the night at the mountain again, but he refrained. Batman was wearing the grimace that meant it was time to go home, and even Agent A seemed to be getting antsy. Besides, he he had a <em>lot<em> of catching up to do with his mentor once they were away from everyone else.

Once all their goodbyes had been said the trio stepped into the Zeta tube. "Man," the teen smiled when the Batcave had materialized in front of them. "...That was a great party. Thanks, Agent A."

"You're very welcome, Master Robin," the masked butler nodded. "You and your team more than deserved it, I'd say. Wouldn't you agree, Master Batman?"

"...You did well," Batman allowed. His hand landed heavily on Robin's shoulder, and he began to steer him towards the back of the room. "Now let's get changed. I've been wearing these clothes for six days straight, and I imagine you'd like a shower after last night, too."

"Yeah...a shower sounds great, actually."

"Then I'll see you both in the living room, hmm?" Agent A, now transformed back into Alfred, asked.

"Yes," Batman replied. "...The living room."

"For more Christmas?" Robin asked hopefully. The items that he had opened at the mountain had clearly been things intended for night work, and that meant that there was still a tree full of civilian goodies waiting upstairs. Surely he wouldn't be made to wait an extra day just because his Christmas Eve had been spent apprehending the Joker.

A rare chuckle sounded from beneath the cowl. "Yes, Robin. For more Christmas."

"Excellent!"

Despite his eagerness, he didn't race up the stairs once he'd showered and dressed. Instead he sat down on a bench and waited, listening to the water run on the other side of the wall as Bruce scrubbed off a week's worth of grime. He was just on the verge of nodding off when the flow stopped. Jerking upright, he shook himself, determined not to let his guardian see how tired he still was.

"...Dick?" The billionaire frowned as he came around the corner in his weekend clothes. "I thought you would have gone straight up to the living room."

Dick stood up and stepped forward. "I wanted to wait for you," he said quietly, resting his head on the man's shoulder. Arms wrapped around him, pulling him in carefully. "...I missed you."

"I missed you too, chum." The words breezed through his damp hair, making him shiver. "...Cold?"

"No." Nevertheless, he nestled closer. "...Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"We...we did okay, didn't we? With the Joker?" He knew they had, but he wanted to hear the words spoken by the person whose opinion he valued most in the world.

The hands on his back tightened. "...Dick, from what I've heard things couldn't have gone any better if I'd been there myself."

There it was again, that edge of depression. It tainted the joy that wanted to well up in his stomach, and he frowned. "Then why do you sound upset?" he asked.

"Do I sound upset?"

"Yes. Well...sad is a better word, I guess. You sound sad."

A sigh was heaved. "You're just growing up on me, chum," Bruce murmured. "_That_ makes me a little sad, even though I know it's a good thing. But it also makes me proud, and pride...pride is by far the dominant emotion. So forgive me if I sound a bit upset when you triumph, or," he gave an amused _hmph_, "if I laugh when you get excited about Christmas like you're nine years old again. It's not that you've done anything wrong; it's just that I'm trying to hold onto the past. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. "But Bruce?"

"Mm?"

"I'm not going anywhere, you know. I'm still your Robin."

"I know, kiddo. Thank you." He paused. "Speaking of Robin...there's something he should know before we go upstairs. It's about last night."

Dick pulled back and studied his guardian's expression. "...It's bad, isn't it?" he guessed.

"It's not pleasant, but there's nothing you could have done about it. I just thought you might want to hear it from me instead of from the news."

"Did one of the hostages die?" He'd freed them as quickly as he could, but maybe it hadn't been fast enough...

"No. The hostages you and the team rescued are all recovering, according to the Commissioner." Bruce led him back to the bench as he spoke, then gestured for him to sit. "I didn't think anything of it until you were telling everyone what had happened in the castle and mentioned the Joker wanting you to play a game."

Dick narrowed his eyes. "Wait...is this about what was in the boxes he had the elves standing on?"

"...Yes." Bruce hesitated. "Maybe this should wait until after you've opened all of your presents."

"No," he refused. "...No, I want to know. What was in those boxes, Bruce? What was it he wanted me to put together?"

"He...he wanted you to put together Santa Claus, Dick."

"...Santa Claus?" It took him a moment, but once he recalled what the Joker had said when he was explaining the rules of the game everything clicked into place. "He...he told me that if I won he would take off his suit and give it back to its rightful owner," he whispered. "Bruce...he put a _person_ in those presents, didn't he? He murdered the man who was playing Santa when the mall was attacked and put him into the boxes. Into..._multiple_ boxes."

"Yeah, chum. He did."

Moaning, Dick slumped into the warm figure at his side. "...That poor guy," he lamented. "Did...did they at least find of all of him, for his family? The Joker said there was a fourth box that he'd give me at the end. It had the most important part, he told me. Did they find that, too?"

"Gordon said they found everything. Arms, legs...everything."

Dick couldn't keep his mind from doing grotesque calculations. Arms in one crate, legs in another, torso in the third...that left only one thing, and the Joker had mentioned that the fourth box was the smallest... "It was his head, wasn't it?"

"What?"

"The fourth box. It was his head."

"...Oh. Yes. It...it was his head."

_I tried,_ he cried silently. _I tried so hard to save them all. First the mall security guard, and now the mall Santa...and he said there were others, too...but I __tried__...what more could I have done?_ He shivered again, and the arm around his shoulders squeezed. "...Sorry."

"Hush. It's okay. You have every reason to shudder after something like that. But listen to me; that man was likely dead before you even knew the Joker was out of Arkham. There was _nothing_ you could have done to save him or the others who were killed at the beginning of the siege. So instead of mourning the people you had no way of helping, do what you do best."

"What's that?" Dick asked, swiping at his cheeks.

Bruce caught him by the chin and turned his face until their eyes met. "Laugh in the face of horror," he said firmly, "and keep on smiling."

"...You mean I should go upstairs and try to have an extra happy day just to spite the Joker?"

"To spite the Joker and to honor those who should have been able to enjoy today themselves, yes. I don't think the ones who died last night would mind, chum, and I _know_ that the people you saved wouldn't. So don't cry." The billionaire's thumbs rose and gently brushed away the tears still clinging to Dick's face. "...Not on Christmas. Please."

It took him a minute, but finally his sniffling ceased. Bruce was right; there was nothing he could have done for those who had been killed during the takeover. He felt bad that they'd lost their lives, but it was outside of his control. Furthermore, he'd be doing their memories and himself a disservice if he let the events of the previous night ruin his Christmas Day. Even worse, being upset today would hurt his guardian, and if there was one thing he refused to let the Joker do it was force him to wound the man holding him. "...You know what I want to do, Bruce?" he said slowly.

"What's that, kiddo?"

"I want to go upstairs, eat cookies, drink cocoa, and open presents. Screw the Joker; let's utterly _slay_ this Christmas."

The billionaire gave a relieved-sounding laugh and squeezed him tight. "That's a damn good plan, Dicky," he complimented. "Lead the way."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed this year's countdown to Christmas! Thank you so much for reading, and double thanks to those of you who were so kind as to review. Be sure to look for next year's countdown, 'A Third Counting of Days', beginning on 1 December 2015. <strong>

**In the meantime, 'The Silent Treatment' will resume on Tuesday, and there will be a Spark in the Dark New Year's special short featuring Bruce, Dick, Clark, and Wally on the 1st of the year (Thursday). Happy reading, and happy holidays!**


End file.
